Sleep On The Floor
by sexycereal
Summary: He steals my coffee first, my virginity second and my heart third. College fluff. AH.
1. Chapter 1

Nine times out of ten I walked to class. Really, I lived way too close to warrant keeping a car on campus but if it was raining or it was time to get groceries or, in this instance, I woke up with the mother of all hangovers it was worth paying for gas and oil and all the other spare parts you inevitably need when you own a piece of shit car.

There was an added bonus in driving my Bella-shaped hangover to class: time for a trip to Starbucks. Even if my stomach was threatening to eject all intruders Starbucks had its very own chemical makeup that allowed my body to absorb it gratefully and fuel my basic motor functions until I became capable of digesting a pop tart.

It was with this promising mindset that I shuffled through the doors, eyes half closed and UGG boots dragging. I placed my order, thrusting the ten dollar bill at the barista's face to try and block the bright light reflecting from her teeth, before hobbling to the end of the counter to impatiently await my salvation.

It was then—surrounded by commuters, looking like a semi-fashionable tramp—that a level five vomit alert hit my nervous system like a blow to the back of the head. I sprinted—as well as anyone can sprint in ill-fitting, furry boots—to the single toilet at the back and nearly KO'd a woman with a small toddler in my haste to get into the room they were emerging from.

Finally, head hanging over the ceramic bowl, I coughed and spluttered and nothing came up but some drool and about a teaspoonful of bile. Of course, I managed to get both caught on the ends of my hair.

Five minutes of scrubbing the ends with moulting, cheap toilet tissue and I surfaced with sour breath and a reverse case of dandruff.

Slowly, I approached the counter to an exasperated barista calling my name.

"Bella? Venti, extra-shot, iced-latte for Bella? Bella?"

I quickened my pained shuffle in anticipation of the medicinal qualities of high quantities of caffeine and sugar mixed together but then—as I was half-way across the room—a guy stepped forward and grabbed the cup from the woman in the little green apron. He had been half-way down the queue waiting to pay when he sidled out and made a b-line for my drink.

"Yeah, that's mine. Thanks."

My swollen eyes opened slightly more than half-way in my incredulous rage.

"Hey!" I grunted.

For a split-second he looked over at me. His eyes flickered from my dishevelled, lumbering body to the cup in his hands. He looked back at me and then—without remorse in his eyes—he turned straight ahead and ambled nonchalantly toward the exit like he wasn't a coffee-thieving bastard.

The line in front of the register had grown and was now cram-packed with grumpy, under-caffeinated people. I pushed my way through, elbowing indiscriminately in my quest to stop this coffee-related injustice befalling me on what was already a highly shitty day.

Finally, I reached him. I grabbed a fistful of hoody by his arm and yanked him around to face me. I had no idea where the power to do this came from but stories of parents performing inconceivable acts of strength while their children were in danger flitted through my groggy mind and I decided this must be similar. Adrenalin was on my side.

"That's my coffee."

"I don't think so," he replied calmly.

My sarcasm was dialled all the way up. "It says Bella on it. _Your_ name is Bella?"

"It's for my sister."

"Your _invisible_ sister?"

Granted, it wasn't the best comeback but I was teetering on the edge of despair so I let it slide.

"That's my coffee," I repeated, despair creeping into my voice.

He had the nerve to smile while he took a sip and I could see the ice cubes sloshing around deliciously in all the coffee-infused two percent milk. When he swallowed I wanted to punch him in the throat just so he couldn't enjoy it.

I seethed. "You're an awful, _awful_ person."

I could barely see the boy in front of me through the red haze of anger he was responsible for. The fury was almost completely eclipsing my vision, possibly aided by the lumpy day-old mascara that was drooping from my lashes. What I did see was annoyingly attractive and that made everything worse. I felt like a troll telling him to get the hell out from under my bridge. We were out on the sidewalk now and I was sure every passerby thought I was some desperate hobo trying to fence his drink. If only they knew the truth.

Pretty Boy shrugged at my accusation and dug in the front pocket of his jeans with his free hand. He pulled out a disgustingly crumpled bill and waved it in my general direction. I grabbed it as he smirked at me, pulling his sunglasses down and giving me a little wave before he slipped into a car that was worth approximately as much as my college degree. If I owned that car I would also have to live in it.

When I looked down at the little ball of money in my fist I spied an unexpected number and flattened it out just to be sure. The smug bastard had given me fifty dollars.

In that moment I decided I was going to buy ten coffees, then I was going to hunt him down and throw them at his face. I let the plan wash over me for one glorious moment before I stumbled back inside.


	2. Chapter 2

I sucked down the last remaining dregs of my frappucino (the thought of an icy, delicious latte ruined for at least the next 24 hours) and parked lopsidedly in one of the last spaces left in the parking lot. I wedged the empty cup down the side of my seat and peered out through the foggy windshield at the depressing weather waiting for me outside.

I weighed up the pros and cons of crawling into my backseat for a nap rather than attending the class I was now late and under-dressed for. Eventually I made up my mind. Assuming they would let me in the building—surely I had my student ID somewhere in my purse—I would go and at least pretend to learn something. If I was going to nap I wanted to do it in my bed where there was less chance of hitting my head on a door and/or being woken up by people pointing and laughing at me through the passenger-side window.

Class was unbearable. If someone told me we had learned about water boarding by example I would have had no qualms believing them.

Of course, because I was so late (thanks, Coffee Klepto!) the only seat left when I arrived was near the front. This insured that every single person in class could witness exactly how late I was. The lack of a brush through my hair was obvious. I was wearing worn jeans shoved into my boots along with a giant hoody with the name of our illustrious institution of learning emblazoned across the front. It was the morning after uniform and everybody knew it, including the Prof.

I slumped silently in my seat and tried not to throw up on myself. It was painful and the only thing I learned was that a roomful of college girls' perfume was enough to activate my gag reflex.

Despite this it was worth actually showing up as the class had a grade percentage attached to attendance. Fall below 80% and you could say hello to a big, fat F in that section. I only had two more skippable classes before I crossed that red line and I might have an emergency one day, or a worse hangover. You never know.

Finally—finally—the clock hand crept passed the hour mark and everyone began packing up their things. I wrapped my arms around myself and shuffled out the door towards the parking lot before most other students were done packing and chatting.

"Hey, Swan!"

I ignored the call from behind me as I plodded to my car, hoping that they would assume I hadn't heard them. I hated when people called me by my last name—like I was some jock on the varsity team who was going to high five them about the chick they just banged.

"Swaaaan, wait up!"

The voice was now almost a scream. Everyone else in the lot had turned to the source of the noise, alerting me to the fact that I wasn't going to be able to feign aural ignorance this time.

I sighed, grinding my slow pace to a halt.

I turned to see Mike Newton—the world's most annoyingly average nice guy—standing behind me waving.

I used to take AP classes in high school so when Mike got held back a year and did the senior thing all over again I was one of the only people he'd been in a class with before. There were still debates back at my old school about whether or not the school failed him on purpose so that he could play football for them another year. Some people said it was his idea. Frankly, I don't think even Mike Newton was stupid enough to volunteer for extra high school.

Anyway, regardless, he decided we were BFFs/he was going to try valiantly to get into my pants. I've been trying to shake him off ever since. He's like herpes, though, keeps coming back. But, really-nice, take-home-to-your-parents, all-American, why-don't-you-wanna-hit-that-Bella herpes.

"Hi Mike."

"Arizona, you look like you had a good night—am I right?"

I moved from Arizona when I was sixteen, hence the clever nickname. Somehow I have never felt the need to call anyone by the state they're from.

"Yeah, sure, I guess. It was alright."

"Alright? Girl, Tom told me you were dancing on the counters."

Maybe too much punch was involved. Note to self for next time: less punch.

"I got home with all my clothes on so I don't think it qualifies as a big night in frat terms."

"Haha, you're hilarious, Swan. Listen you should come by this weekend—I'll actually be here this time and I'm defo bringing my boys from the team. It'll be cool times."

"Uh, okay. I mean I guess I'll see what's going on. Can't remember if I have plans."

"You look like you can't remember last night!" He grinned good-naturedly and I tried to quell the urge to glower.

"Right, that too. Okay, I gotta go drive myself home before I throw up and/or pass out. See you, Mike."

"You crack me up, Arizona. Call me!"

He knew from previous experience—vast previous experience—that I wouldn't call him but bless Mike he kept on trying.

* * *

I was lucky. Although like all freshmen at our college I had to share a room, I at least shared a room with a girl who was practically engaged to her older, apartment-owning boyfriend.

She spent most of her time there engaged if not to him then at least with his dick. That meant I pretty much got a single. As far as I was aware the only reason she kept anything at our room was in the event of family visiting. In these cases her virginity made a miraculous reappearance and the apartment-owning older guy transformed into her good friend Stephi, who was two years ahead of her in the same course and liked to have study sleepovers to impart her sizable wisdom. I'm sure something sizable was being imparted to her but I doubt it was wisdom.

Either her parents were suffering from some real cognitive problems or they really, really wanted to believe her V-card was still in play.

Ultimately, it meant that I was 99% sure I would have the room to myself when I got inside. My plan for the rest of the day was carved in stone… sleep.

I grabbed my bag from the passenger seat, fished out the crumpled Starbucks container from down the side of my seat and slouched out of my car.

I crossed the parking lot toward my dorm and for one bizarre second I thought I was having a flashback. Then I remembered that for all intents and purposes I was still a goody-two-shoes, and I was hung-over not tripping. My head whipped around in a double-take.

"You!" I admit my gasping, accusatory tone was a bit dramatic.

Pretty Boy stopped in his tracks and turned. I stared, open-mouthed for one awkwardly long moment before I panicked and pitched the crumpled, pretty much empty, plastic Starbucks cup at his face. It hit him square in the forehead and the last melty remnants of cold coffee splattered all over his—admittedly, very attractive—face.

"What the f—"

His growled expletive was cut off by the sudden, painful burst of laughter that escaped my chest. It was hilarious and I was in hysterics. The look on his face was priceless. I just threw something at this relative stranger's face... what the hell was wrong with me?

He dragged his palms across his cheeks. He blinked away the diluted coffee clinging to his ridiculously long lashes and then—despite himself—Pretty Boy started laughing too. It was a deep, warm sound that made me want to close my eyes and have him read me a bedtime story before I slept away the rest of the say.

He closed the distance between us. My throw had been kinda impressive.

"That really hurt."

"Cheaters never prosper."

"When did I cheat?"

"You cheated the rules of queuing at Starbucks. And you stole!"

"I paid for that coffee."

"Not the point. You're mean and rude, and you deserved a coffee in your face. I was late for class!"

I looked up into his magazine-esque features. It seemed as though remorse might have flickered across his face but it was too quick to really tell. He didn't say anything back.

"What's your name?" I asked, my voice slightly less caustic.

His tone was wary, "Why?"

"I can't add you to my shit list without it." I shrugged.

"Edward."

"For real?" I'm almost 100% certain my face scrunched up in disbelief. What was this? The 1800s in England?

"Yes, for real. Do I get to know yours?"

I smiled sweetly. "What so you can target me more easily? I think not."

"Hi, Bella!"

The smug look on my face dissolved. I ignored the voice calling me from across the lot.

"Bella! Earth to Bella Swan!"

The corners of Edward's lips were twitching with amusement. It was clear the greeting was intended for me.

I turned sharply, waved abruptly and glared at the geeky guy from class who was trying to get my attention.

I turned back to Edward Pretty Boy with my face set in a fierce glare. "I hate you," I stated, very matter of fact.

I started to walk away, ignoring his smug call from behind me.

"That wasn't my fault, Bella Swan!"

Bastard.

* * *

Morning brought blessed relief from the hangover of the day before. In fact I felt quite chirpy. Sure, Edward Coffee Stealer had learned my name but I had thrown a plastic cup in his face with seemingly no consequences.

The weather outside was still disgusting but I had plenty of time to attend to the now desperate situation of my personal hygiene. If I could smell myself then the likelihood of other people being offended by my presence was high. I had changed a lot since starting college but I refused to be _that_ person.

Once I looked and smelled as shiny as possible I grabbed the absolute necessities for the day and added a granola bar. Despite being a grey, despondent haze the outside world was not actually plagued by rain. I figured I would be safe to walk.

IPod ear buds were placed in ears, granola bar was stashed in convenient pocket and I turned up the volume on some truly cheesy pop. It was then—as I headed to the front door of the dorm—that I ran smack, bang into someone.

That someone was—of course—Edward No-Last-Name.

"Seriously?" I screeched.

He grabbed my wrist as I tried to storm past. I yanked the ear buds out.

"Whoa, Swan."

"Don't call me Swan."

He nodded.

"What?" I demanded.

"I'm sorry." He thrust a cup towards me. It was the same drink he had stolen from me in the largest size available.

I took the coffee, eyeing him warily. He looked as though he was gauging whether or not I would throw it at him. When he had decided he was safe a brown paper bag followed the cup. He held it open and I peeked inside.

"There are like ten muffins in here."

"I didn't know what you liked."

I looked up at him—his face sincere—and back to the bag. "Blueberry's my favorite," I replied, a little chastised. The gesture was unnervingly sweet, especially coming from such an asshole.

He plucked a muffin from the bag and handed it to me.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked around a mouthful of tasty blueberries.

"'Cause I'm really sorry, I'm not usually such a dick."

"You sure? You seemed really good at it."

"Okay, sometimes. But I was nervous about being late and that woman called your name like ten times. I was sure no one was claiming that coffee. Then you showed up and I felt like such a tool… even if I did pay you back."

"Oh yeah, giving me fifty bucks for a latte wasn't condescending at all." I rolled my eyes.

"I didn't have anything smaller! Anyway, I'm a dick and I'm sorry for stealing your coffee. You did look like you really needed it," he finished with a slight smirk.

"You ass."

"Am I forgiven?"

"What's your last name?"

"Masen-Cullen."

"Edward Masen-Cullen… are you kidding?" I grinned.

"Says the girl called Swan."

"Fine. You're forgiven, Edward Masen-Cullen. Conditionally. If you show anymore klepto tendencies the next coffee I throw won't be iced."

"Duly noted. Wanna walk to class? Since we have the same one."

He looked so cute and smiley. I was full of delicious muffin and yummy iced latte, so I said yes.

"Sure. So, why were you nervous about being late?"

He shrugged. "'Cause I'm new and we pulled a bunch of strings just to get me into half of these classes this late."

"Who's we?"

"Me and my sisters."

I frowned. "Not your parents?"

"Not my parents."

I shrugged it off and asked, "So they go here too?"

"My parents?" he teased.

"No, your sisters."

He cracked a smile. "No."

"Why is that funny? Lots of sibs go to the same schools."

"My youngest sister is thirty-three."

"Wait, what? How old are you?"

"Nineteen."

I did some quick math in my head and was staggered by the number I ended up with. "There's fourteen years between you?"

"Yeah." He shrugged. "There's twenty-one between me and Esme. She's the oldest."

"Man, I guess you were a surprise baby."

His incredulous look was amused. "That's kind of rude to say to someone you just met."

"Hey, I said 'surprise', not 'accident'."

He smiled wryly.

"Okay, so you're the baby. Now I get why you're such a brat."

"Charming," he snorted.

"Hardly."

He bumped my shoulder with his as we walked. "I meant you."

I rolled my eyes at him. Then realization hit me. "Wait, we're walking to class together."

"And…"

"You're in my class. You saw me crash and burn yesterday!"

He shrugged and gave me a cute smile. "Don't worry; your dry heaving was adorable."

"I really hate you."

"Sure thing, Duckling." He held out the muffin bag for me to select another.

I grabbed one that looked full of red berries. "What did you just call me?"

"Well, if you're not ready to be Swan…"

"You're cheesy and an asshole. That isn't a great combo. You have a hyphenated last name; you should be trying to reclaim cool points like it's your last chance."

"Somehow I don't think I'll need them with you, Duckling," he grins.

"Did you seriously just call me uncool? And imply I'm ugly?"

He was trying not to laugh, trying really hard.

"Whatever, Klepto." I tried with every muscle in my face not to smile back, and failed.

* * *

**AN: Thank you so much to everyone who has placed this story on their alerts. An extra special thanks to everyone who left a review. At the moment I don't have any pre-readers or a beta so if anyone wants to volunteer please send me a message. :)**


	3. Chapter 3

Edward followed me through the large wooden doors into our lecture hall and took the seat next to mine. I looked up from unpacking the measly learning resources I'd stashed in my bag: dog-eared notebook, chewed up pen, second chewed up pen. Edward was already unpacked, everything thrown kind of haphazardly on the writing bar above his knees, everything shiny and new.

"I feel like I gained a stalker."

He smiled brightly. His mouth pulled up in the most endearingly lopsided way when he smiled. "I feel like I gained a stalkee."

"Oh boy."

Before he could respond a pair of boobs thrust into my periphery vision, blocking Edward's face. I followed their trajectory in reverse until I found the face attached to them. Jessica. I met Jessica at one of the first frat parties I ever went to. I was there courtesy of Mike. Jess was rushing a sorority, or pledging... communing? Anyway, she was there.

Jess used to be a chubby girl with acne and bad orthodontia who went by Jessie. Then in the summer between high school and college she discovered GHDs, dropped the puppy fat, got her braces off (Seriously? A senior with braces? Life could be so cruel.) and finally hit the right combo with her doc to clear up that skin. Now the only large part of Jess was her chest. Despite the transformation she was my type of people—over-achieving and bookish, even if she was super, super nice.

Unlike Mike people had been mean to her all through school. I figured she deserved to have someone super cynical to make sure all the Chlamydia-infected jocks who now wanted to get into her (much smaller) pants didn't take advantage.

Yes, this is a lot of information about Jess but she really likes to talk now that people will actually listen to her.

So when the double Ds attached to her size four frame interrupted Edward and I, I knew it was not a slut move. She just didn't realize how far those things jutted out compared with the rest of her.

She tapped my shoulder, nodding towards Pretty Boy. "Bella, who's your new friend?"

"This is Edward. He stole my coffee then tried to buy me off with fifty bucks. He's new. MC, this is Jess. She's good people."

Edward's mouth gaped open as he tried to formulate a response. "I have so many objections to that introduction."

I shrugged. "Sometimes it's hard to realize how people really see you."

"Hi Jess, nice to meet you," he delivered mostly to her boobs.

This was not entirely his fault since she was on the raised row behind us and they were pretty much eye level.

"I didn't understand any of that. But hey, I guess you didn't piss off Bella that bad or you guys wouldn't be sitting together." She grinned at Edward.

"She threw an iced coffee at my face," he deadpanned.

"It was empty! Just a tiny bit of melty ice."

"Bella! Why do we even let you out in public?"

I huffed. Twirling my first chewed up pen between my fingers. "Whatever, Jess. He started it and I didn't break any laws, unlike Klepto."

"Uh, hey, hey, hey, what about assault? You could have blinded me."

"Yeah, that would have made subsequent throwing easier. I'm pretty sure you'd duck in time if I tried it again. Clearly, time to think of new punishments."

"Truly, the start of a beautiful friendship."

Edward rolled his eyes at Jess' boobs.

Then we had to be quiet and learn. I've never been the note passing, secret giggling type of girl in lectures. One time I lay down along the bench seats and took a nap. The raised writing platform in front hid me from the Prof and surprisingly no one was enough of a brat to rat me out.

Sadly, I was too close to the front for any napping. Also, I had a feeling Edward would be the kind to stab me in the arm with his biro until I woke up. Surprise wake ups in class never go unnoticed. I think it's the gasping and sitting bolt upright that does it.

Class ended quicker than anticipated. The Prof had a more pressing appointment than a class full of people who were paying for him to educate us. Unsurprisingly, no one cared that we were missing out on thirty minutes of really expensive intellectual stimulation.

"Alright, MC, you coming with me?"

Edward looked up to where I was standing. "What?"

"I figured since you have no friends you'd be tagging along with me some more."

"No, well yes, but no. Wait, what did you call me?"

"MC. Masen-Cullen. Since we're at that point in our relationship where we give each other stupid nicknames."

"They're my initials, not a nickname."

"So you got off lucky. I happen to think they're hilarious enough."

He rolled his eyes at me. This seemed to be the beginning of a trend.

"Jess, tomorrow, library, yes?" I asked over my shoulder.

"Sure thing, Bella."

"Do you want to come do... whatever we're doing?" Edward asked Jess, able to speak to her face now that we were all standing.

"Food probably," I added.

"Oh, that's sweet of you to ask. I need to go drop off a paper though, it'd be cool if I could just get it done now, y'know?"

I tutted disapprovingly at Jess. "Sure, choose academia over deliciousness."

"Only one's gonna get me a job." She shrugged, grinning.

"Oh, laugh now, my future career as a food taster is going to be very fulfilling."

"I'm scared to see what might happen if you don't get fed regularly, let's go," Edward piped up.

Pretty Boy really was kind of a smart-ass.

"Yeah, well, you've seen what caffeine deprivation does to me. Let my blood sugar drop at your own risk."

"Pastries, stat," he declared.

Jess waved us goodbye.

Edward let me walk through doors first, carried my really heavy text book, topped me up with one more muffin as we walked to the nearest diner and chatted affectionately the whole way. It was like I had accidentally fed a stray and he'd decided that he now belonged to me.

I couldn't even bring myself to be freaked out by the thought. If he wanted to be my pretend boyfriend then I would accept the groveling, smart-assery, free coffee and the eye candy. Boy was definitely, definitely pretty. All clear skin and long lashes, thick hair and shiny warm eyes.

He was wearing a zip-up hoody and I sort of wanted him to zip me up in there with him.

I was _really_ glad that I was a virtuoso at keeping my thoughts to myself. Suddenly the stalker title was in danger of changing hands.

"You realize you just ate three muffins, right?"

"Yeah?"

"Okay. Just didn't want to get the blame for your inevitable carb overdose."

I shrugged. We were both quiet for a while. I sipped my subpar coffee (with lots of cream and sugar) while Pretty Boy drank his black. We had both ordered a stack and side of bacon and although he had barely touched his, Edward let me steal pieces of bacon from his plate.

I couldn't explain the strange sense of calm around us. I didn't feel nervous or self-conscious. I knew I was being overly familiar but it didn't seem to bother Edward. It definitely didn't bother me, which was weird. Weirder still, he was acting the same.

When my foot accidentally bumped his leg under the table he nudged the sole of my pump back with his sneaker. Everything about our impromptu brunch felt like I had known him forever.

"So, how come you switched college?" I mumbled around a mouthful of bacon.

He looked down at the pitted, grimy tabletop. "Eh, I'd had enough of being away from home."

"Aw, mama's boy," I teased.

"Something like that."

He was quiet again. I finished chewing and asked, "Where were you before?"

"New York. I used to visit my sister there when I was in high school—loved it. It's totally different living there."

"Esme?" I asked, trying to remember any names he'd offered earlier.

"Rosalie," he corrected.

"So she's the youngest sister, right?"

"No, that's Alice."

"Wait, how many sisters do you have?"

He grinned at my confusion. "Four. Esme, Tanya, Rosalie and Alice."

"In that order?" I licked syrup off my lips and tried to not notice him watching me.

He nodded.

I took a sip of my orange juice and joked, "Man your mom is a machine."

"She was a pretty amazing mother."

"What and now she's basking in empty nest syndrome?"

His brow creased for the smallest moment before he smoothed out his expression. "No, she's dead. My dad too."

I froze, all my moments halting half-way through. I think my heart stopped from the awkwardness alone. "But I thought— you said—"

"I moved back so I'd be closer to Esme and her husband," he explained softly.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm such a douche."

He smiled and my heart started up again. "You're not a douche."

"I am," I insisted. "I have the sensitivity of a rodent."

"Don't worry about it. Seriously, it was a long time ago." He took a long drink from his tepid coffee. Pretty Boy didn't look like he was about to have an emotional breakdown. On the other hand I was pretty sure I was sweating maple syrup and latte as the embarrassment flushed hot through my whole body.

"Yeah?" I asked tentatively.

He quirked his mouth and nodded. "Yeah, I wasn't even one."

"So your sister, Esme—"

"Is pretty much my mom," he cut me off. "It's weird, I know."

"It's a little Party of Five, but not weird." I tried to stop myself from saying anything else ridiculous or inane, but 90% of what I said in life fell into one of the two categories. I fished in my brain for something sensible—and not offensive—to add. "So she looked after you?"

"Yeah. She was twenty-one, Tanya was like twenty. They figured it out."

"Wow, that's really sweet. I bet they spoiled you." I could imagine a tiny Pretty Boy, still just as pretty and probably almost as obnoxious. Little kids are always obnoxious. I would totally spoil that kid. I bet his eyelashes were even longer then.

"Why I'm such a brat, right?"

I pouted deliberately, trying not to laugh. "Stop it. I officially suck as a human being."

"Only a little," he agreed with a warm smile.

"I need to eat my pancakes. Keeping food in my mouth keeps my foot out of it."

It was deathly quiet at our booth. My fork sounded like a sledgehammer against the plate. I was sure I could hear my own breath.

Finally Pretty Boy spoke. "You can ask questions if you want."

"That obvious?"

White, white teeth flashed behind his lips when he grinned. "You look like you might burst. Could be all the pancakes though."

"Ass," I muttered into the remains of my food.

"Now you're calling orphans names, nice."

I stuck my tongue out swiftly. "Just the one and he's kind of a smart ass."

"Go on." He made a motion with his hand for me to continue.

"So they adopted you?"

"Esme adopted me. With her husband, Carlisle. He's older and a doctor, it helped things along."

I nodded and took another drink of orange juice. "What about the rest of them?"

"Well, Tanya didn't live at home. Her and Esme both moved back right after the accident but T lives just outside LA and she headed back not long after."

His hands wrapped around the mug of now-cold coffee on his side of the table.

"Rosie was a senior—or about to be a senior—I can't remember. Anyway, she went to college in New York and never really came back 'cept for vacation."

I licked my lips and nodded for him to continue.

"Alice was almost in high school. She was around a lot and she stayed nearby for college 'cause I was just starting kindergarten. This is second-hand info by the way 'cause I was like six months old when the accident happened," he finished wryly.

"Wow." I wanted to ask him what the accident was but that seemed inappropriate, even for me.

"Meh, it's normal for me."

"So, who went to your high school stuff—football games or recitals."

"Whoever was free, all of them if they could. Guys in my grade started calling them my 'hot moms' when I was in middle school."

I tried not to laugh. My lips twisted up against my control.

"You'll be glad to know that followed me all through high school until graduation."

I smirked. "How fun for you."

"What about you?" His long fingers were still wrapped around the coffee cup and I was busy committing them to memory, digit by digit.

"Oh, nothing exciting, I don't really talk to my parents. The odd call to check when I'm coming home for the holidays or which I'm visiting. They're divorced."

"Huh."

"Yeah, your family sounds way more functional. Renee and Charlie don't fight but I figure the next time I get them in a room together will be if I get married. If I ended up in prison they'd take turns visiting."

"Wow."

I shrugged. "Normal for me, too." The silence found its way back to our table. "Can I ask more questions?"

He inclined his head in what was either a shrug or a nod. Either way I figured it was okay to keep going with my interview.

"So, Esme's married—"

"From before I was born," he finished. "She was like nineteen or something."

"Whoa, how about everyone else?" I swirled the last mouthful of my orange juice around the bottom of the glass a couple of times. The bits stuck to the side of the glass and got lost again on the next swish.

"You're really nosy." He nudged my glass with his mug.

"I prefer curious… or interested."

"Sure." He grinned. "Okay, Tanya's seeing some guy but whatever, she'll probably never get married. Rosalie's engaged but she was married to this complete asshole when I was a kid. Alice got married a couple of years back to her college boyfriend. He's really cool. Surprisingly, I am not married."

"Oh good, that was my next question." I smiled. "Sorry, I really am nosy. I should be like a sociologist or something."

"Or a historian," he agreed.

"Nah, that would drive me insane—being so far away from the answers. Not being able to interrogate people to find stuff out."

"You don't talk about yourself much."

I shrugged and leaned across the table to skewer his last piece of bacon with my fork. "Not much to talk about. Before I got here I lived the most boring, most sheltered life imaginable."

"Boring's good sometimes."

"Yeah, I guess. Gets kind of old when it's all you have though."

"I can't imagine you being boring."

My mouth twitched into a self-deprecating smile. "You don't have to, you're experiencing it."

"Hardly. You really think all this is boring?" he prodded.

"Well no, but it's not like epic drama or comedy or something."

"What's so great about epic?"

"The fact that it's epic?"

"Sometimes the small stuff is better."

I looked around and saw myself eating pancakes with a pretty boy who was funny and polite and had really shiny hair. I supposed I got what he was saying.

"So, I guess this makes us friends then."

He cocked an eyebrow at my non ___sequitur_.

"Stalking usually involves more bushes and less conversation," I clarified.

"You want me to go across the street and take pictures of you eating with my cell phone?"

"Nah, we can just be friends."

"Okay, Duckling." His answering smile made me want to hide my face inside my scarf.

* * *

**AN: Again, thank you, thank you to all who are reading. It makes my day to know someone other than me is enjoying this story.**


	4. Chapter 4

I was sitting criss-cross apple sauce on my bed, flipping idly through a magazine I had liberated earlier from the common room. Pretty Boy was across the way, sprawled on Jenna's unused bed; he hadn't bothered to take off his shoes. It had been a few days since the disastrous trip to Starbucks. Except for bathroom breaks and our increasingly whacked sleeping schedules we hadn't really spent any time apart.

"Which floor are you on?" I asked.

"Three. It's nice to know I sleep under you every night."

"Urgh. Who's your roommate?"

"Don't have one — some guy dropped out."

"Already? Man, that's pathetic. At least stick out Freshman year before you start your new life pumping gas, y'know?"

"We can't all be as naturally blessed with intellect as the great Bella Swan."

"Bullshit. What's your GPA?"

"So nosy."

"I one hundred times don't believe your GPA is less than 3.9."

He just shrugged nonchalantly.

"You're too smug. How many extra classes are you taking?" I demanded.

"I'm not telling you my GPA."

"Bad friend."

"Sociopath."

I stuck my tongue out at him. Not the most original of comebacks and predictably Pretty Boy only rolled his eyes in response.

"So how long have you been here?"

He replied dryly: "Listen, my autobiography is coming out next week. I'll include an FAQ."

"Fine. Be an ass. Get the fuck out of my room."

"What's the difference if you're pissed at me here or through three floors?"

"I can see your face here."

"So shut your eyes."

"It's my room. Get out."

"You suck."

"Go make some other friends or something. I can't deal with you being such an ass all the time."

"How am I being an ass? Cause I won't spend the next six hours giving you a play-by-play of my whole life?"

"Whatever, Klepto."

His face drew together in anger. A little crease appeared between his thick eyebrows and his lips thinned into a harsh line. He slammed the door on his way out.

I sat—cross-legged and in a snit—on my bed. I couldn't believe he had the audacity to be pissed at me. Also, I wasn't really entirely certain how we'd managed to get in a fight.

I imagined Edward all frowny and lonely three flights of stairs away. I wasn't sure if he had any friends other than me. He was probably talking smack about me to some stuffed Care Bear one of his sisters got for him. I immediately felt bad for that thought. I buried the guilt like an accidental corpse—quick and shallowly—because he was being so cold and mean. Other than that one first meeting he had never come across as _cold_.

I was pouting and before I knew it I was crying. Big, blubbery, reality-show-star, crocodile tears running down my face because of how unfair it all was. I liked him and I had done something—I wasn't sure exactly what but I was pretty certain I could blame my big, defensive mouth—to make him look at me like I had just pissed on his family.

As much as I gasped and sobbed about how much I wanted him to not be mad at me, I was not apologizing. He made me cry. I wasn't sure I had ever cried about a boy before.

I was worried I might not get to see his shiny eyes and the warm smile ever again. That made me more upset. Which was stupid, of course I would see him again, we lived three floors apart in the same building.

My head hurt, my eyelids were swollen and my cheeks were blotchy. I tried to drink a glass of water from the small sink in my room 'cause I was out of bottled but the water from the faucet tasted dull and metallic. Like I was sucking a filthy penny that had spent a week in someone's sweaty pocket.

Edward still hadn't come back. Not that I was expecting him since I was the one to throw him out.

I peeled off my jeans, tank and everything underneath. I pulled on my ratty, waffle robe—not really giving a damn if anyone saw me on the walk to the bathroom. I grabbed my wash bag and padded bare-foot and dejected to the end of the hall for a shower. It was about as good as a shower gets when you live in college dorms.

Back in my room I redressed in yoga pants and a tank top. I stuck my feet in furry bootie slippers and didn't put on underwear. I pulled a mammoth blanket from under my bed and shrugged it over my shoulders.

Then I went to hide out in the laundry room.

It was generally quiet and always really warm with the soothing rumbling coming from the near continuous cycles of the driers. People would come and go but they were usually quiet too. The back wall had a rib-level wooden counter make of decking-like strips of unvarnished pine. I sat on top at one end. I looked like a psychopath.

I was there for about two hours before anyone disturbed me.

"You know people are telling the RA some hobo has broken in and built a nest in here, right?"

Pretty Boy's voice was almost as warm as the air from the driers and the pinched look was gone from his face. On the other hand he didn't look like he had spent the last four hours moping and weeping about me.

I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders and said nothing. He jumped up to sit on the other end of the counter.

"You wouldn't need the blanket if you wore some more clothes."

I didn't reply. He scooted down the counter a few feet closer to me.

"It's nice, is that poly-blend?" he teased.

I didn't reply and he scooted a little closer.

"So you're going to ignore me from now on?"

I flipped the blanket over my head so I couldn't see him. He scooted until he was right beside me. Long fingers rubbed the edge of my blanket between them.

"Soft. Can I come in?"

He pulled the side nearest to him out of my loosely formed fist and threw it over his own head and shoulders, pulling it closed again over his chest. The whole of his right side was pressed snugly against the whole of my left. The warm detergent smell from the washers wrapped around us.

His hair tickled where it brushed against my skin. He was so close I could see the shadows cast by his gargantuan lashes.

"Have you been crying?"

It pissed me off even more that not only had he not been crying but he knew I had. A few leftover tears spilled out the corners of my eyes.

"Are you really crying because I wouldn't tell you how long I've been enrolled in school? Cause that's a little insane, Duckling."

A little snort of laughter escaped me, it sounded wet and bubbly.

"I'm not."

"Okay."

"You're mad at me."

"You're worried about making me mad? You threw a drink at me. You call me names. You haven't been pleasant to me once since we met."

"Different," I argued.

"You're such a girl," he laughed.

"Whatever." I burrowed into his side and he let me.

He poked me in the ribs. "Clingy."

"Shut up."

"Who's the stalker now?"

"Take out a restraining order then."

"I'd rather restrain you myself."

I burst out laughing into the side of his chest. "You're ridiculous," I mumbled once my laughter died down.

"You're hiding under a blanket in the laundry room," he pointed out.

"So are you."

"Let's do something."

I tilted my head up to see his face. His eyes were murky aquarium green in the shade of the blanket.

"What?"

He shrugged. The movement bounced me.

"Don't care. Movie, drive around, maybe there's a party."

"Can't go outside, I'm not wearing a bra."

"I know," he laughed.

With a humph I dropped my head back on his chest. He lifted me up to support myself and jumped down from the counter taking the blanket with him.

"Come on, cage the pups and we can go join civilization."

"This is college, how much civilization do you think there is?" Reluctantly I unfolded myself from my perch and slid down to the floor. "Alright, but if I'm putting on a bra you need to make it worth my while."


	5. Chapter 5

Pretty Boy followed me back upstairs with my blanket balled around his hands. Sporadically he would swat me with it. Unsurprisingly this led to more than a few responses which could be deemed inappropriate. What I found inappropriate was the fact that the raggedy elastic in my yoga pants was half-way to giving up, and Edward's blanket-based harassment was hurrying it toward the light. I glared at the few people we passed on the way to my room. They seemed overtly interested in what I hoped was Edward's face rather than my miniature break-down. It was college after all, surely there was something more exciting than a Freshman napping in the laundry room — that was my story, I was sticking to it, it was warm in there goddammit.

"You're gonna make some rich, old, hag very happy as her cabana boy," I snapped, as he whipped the corner of the blanket at my ass again. "We just need to get you a towel and some short-shorts."

"Don't need a towel," he replied smugly.

I stopped, turned on my heel, and grabbed a fistful of blanket, pulling it from his grasp. The blanket was much larger than I remembered and Pretty Boy put up a half-assed fight with me for it. Finally, after an ungraceful tug-o-war, he released it and I wrapped it around myself, throwing the outside corner over my shoulder with an exaggerated flourish. "_Mine_." I narrowed my eyes in emphasis.

"I would have never guessed you're an only child."

I rolled my eyes in response to his sarcasm, and leaned against my dorm room door to fish the key out of my slipper boot. Some idiot thought it would be a fabulous idea to build the place with doors which automatically locked when they closed. Great for preventing petty theft. Great for skyrocketing the number of drunk-slash-high kids locked out of their rooms after a munchies run to the vending machines. Pretty Boy leaned against the wall opposite my door and watched me with amusement. Smug bastard. Eventually, I gave up my futile task and pulled the boot off my foot altogether — shaking it upside-down until my key thunked out onto the floor.

"That's where you chose to keep your room key?"

I shrugged while twisting the key in the lock. "Told you, I'm not wearing a bra. I don't have any pockets."

"The fact that bra came up before pockets doesn't even surprise me."

"Hey, it's a time honored classic. Money, keys, Kleenex, condoms — you can store 'em all. One time I kept my cell phone in there but it fell out every time I leaned over."

I stumbled into my room — still wearing only one slipper — and threw the keys onto the middle of my bed. Pretty Boy flopped straight down on his back across Jenna's.

"Why do you even have two beds in here?"

"Told you — my 'roomie' has a townie boyfriend with a black AMEX."

"Lucky Roomie."

"Don't even, I've seen your car."

"Grad present."

"Oh yeah, cause you didn't have a car the second you turned sixteen."

He rolled onto his side to face me, propping up his head with one hand. "Actually, I got my car before I turned sixteen. Rosalie found this awesome vintage — fixed it up."

"You drove a classic car in high school? You douche!"

"I said I had the car, not that I drove it."

I raised my eyebrows expectantly.

He tried very hard not to laugh as he admitted: "I had another car for school."

I scrunched up my face. "Richie Rich."

"I _wish _I had a McDonald's in my house."

"I can't believe you've seen that movie."

"I can't believe you referenced that movie," he parried back.

"Whatever, I could have been referencing the comic book."

"Oh, Duckling, that would have been geekier."

"Why do you have an insurmountable need to be an asshole?"

Pretty Boy flopped back onto his back and closed his eyes. "You bring out the best in me?"

I flipped him the bird while his eyes were closed, and turned toward my closet for a more company-appropriate outfit. I seriously doubted the rest of the world (except maybe Mike — who would probably write about it in his diary in gold pen and cursive) wanted to see my bulls-eye nips making a break for the outside world through my over-washed Target-from-three-years-ago tank.

I looked over to where Pretty Boy lay on the spare bed: all long, spidery limbs, lean, and beautiful, and making my stomach flip like a pancake — hot and sticky sweet. He seemed completely oblivious to the minor stroke I was having (completed with small drool-puddle at the corner of my mouth) as he stretched.

I kicked off the one slipper I still has on my foot and dropped the key-holder next to it on the floor. I waited for a sign of life from the painfully gorgeous boy reclining in my room, but got none. I sat on the edge of the bed and nudged him with my elbow — he ignored me. I nudged harder; his lips curled slightly, but his eyes remained closed, and he continued to ignore me.

"_Hey_."

He replied casually as though I hadn't just been assaulting him: "Yeah?"

"Where are we going? I don't know what to wear."

"A bra would be a good start."

"Ha ha. What else? Come _on_, MC, help me out."

"Not those ratty pants?"

"I thought you weren't usually a dick?"

"But sometimes I'm a dick," he replied. His eyes were still closed and every now and then he would move slightly, sinking comfortably into the mattress. It made me want to lay on top of him and take a nap. I managed to quell the impulse... just. "It's for your own good," he continued, "those pants are hideous."

"They're yoga pants; they're not a fashion-statement, Klepto."

"Whatever, like you do yoga."

"I can get my legs behind my head."

He shifted almost Pavlovian-ly at the mention of my gymnastic abilities. Which was actually true, but only because my legs are slightly too long for my body, and not because I've actually exercised at any point in my life thus far. Thanks, genetics! I'm so pale they won't let me give blood, but at least one day — when I'm not the biggest virgin in the world — bedtime'll be a riot.

"So can half the local strip-club, but it doesn't mean they know their downward facing dog from their lotus."

"I'll bet they're pretty comfortable with their downward facing dog."

"Zing," he drawled.

"Seriously, _Edward_, where are we going?"

He propped himself up on his elbows and finally opened his eyes. "Movie?"

"No. Everything's shit right now. I'm not seeing anything about the apocalypse or in CGI."

"You don't like Toy Story?"

"Oh God, dude, you have too many sisters."

"Whatev, Duckie."

"No. _No_. I am not Molly Ringwald's sexually-repressed friend. _No _— line drawn."

"You're fucking insane," he said warmly.

I crossed my arms over my chest, trying not to let his expression warm me up. "Movies out, try again."

"Drive around?"

"Waste of gas. No point unless you're parentally-oppressed and need an hour unsupervised to cop a feel."

His brow furrowed. "You don't like driving just to... drive?"

"No, Duluoz. Beat America this is not. Try again."

"Party?"

I couldn't immediately think of a reason why that was a terrible suggestion. I knew for a fact that Mike and his football buds were throwing an off-campus kegger that night; I would usually be going anyway. Plus, Pretty Boy could be my anti-Mike insurance. It was almost too perfect — except of course the fact that Pretty Boy was... a pretty boy. A nineteen-year-old college guy with the face of a really, really good baby prostitute from Europe or something who — when endowed with liquor — would probably ditch me for all the drunken, sloppy sluts rubbing all over his thighs.

"What's happening?" he asked. "You look like you're having a seizure. Should I roll you on your side so you don't choke on your own vomit?"

I snapped my mouth shut. "Sorry, just struck dumb by the surprise of you actually possessing a good idea."

"You're embarrassing me with all this affection."

"Suck it up, and get the fuck out. I only have two hours to get ready and you need to change your shirt."

"This is a good shirt."

"Yeah, white's really good for beer stains. It'll be like a tasty wet t-shirt comp."

"Touche." He stood then, sighing exaggeratedly as he swung his feet onto the floor. He ruffled my hair as he passed. "Later, Duckie."

I didn't even have a shoe to throw at him as he quickly made for the door.

* * *

_AN: You guys are spectacular. Thank you to every single person who reviewed — you really made my week. Thank you to all who're still reading, and a special thanks to those who recc'd this story. I'm so glad you're all taking it in the light-hearted spirit it was intended._


	6. Chapter 6

With Pretty Boy gone I stood in front of my shoebox-sized closet and tried to decide what to wear. The fact was, Edward had bombarded his way into my life directly after a lengthy period of not doing my laundry — it happens... a lot.

I'm a stress cleaner, and clearly I had been lacking adequate turmoil in my life. If I had thought things through I would have thrown in a load while I was sulking in the laundry room.

Forward thinking was never a forte of mine.

I was short and my boobs were nowhere near as spectacular as I'd like, and most importantly although I liked to dress up as much as the next girl, I'd never really had girly guidance in the vast, terrifying world of what to wear. My mother's fashion sense had disappeared sometime in the late 70s and nobody else had ever really stood me in front of a mirror and told me what colors I should be wearing or if I was a pear or an hourglass or... a spoon or whatever.

It was stressful! I was tempted to give up dressing myself and maybe dust the bathroom.

Quickly I succumbed to an old favorite — skinny jeans and a low-cut top never let anyone down. Black, also a staple. I threw everything on and then sat down with an eyeliner to fix the wrongs blubbery crying had bestowed upon my face.

It was only later, once I was dressed and primped and wearing ten ounces of mascara, that I realized I didn't have Pretty Boy's number. I didn't even know which room he lived in. I knew it was downstairs but after my laundry room nap I figured wandering the third floor calling out his name was _asking _people to ridicule me mercilessly.

One devastatingly embarrassing moment a day was my limit. Mostly.

I went down to the lounge. There wasn't anywhere else to hang around in the building and it seemed weird to sit and wait in my room like it was a date and Edward was picking me up. It was college and we were just going to a party; I was supposed to be cool and aloof. Cool-and-aloof-Bella — that's what I wanted my nickname to be. I had a horrible feeling Duckie was going to stick instead.

I felt the ground disappear from under me, throwing my stomach up into my throat. Hands wrapped tightly around my waist and my feet flew out in front of me as I was spun in a tight circle. It was lucky I was on my way to the dining hall and not on my way back. I screamed and laughed at the same time, flailing my arms and legs to try and persuade the person behind me to put me down.

Pretty Boy dropped me gracefully back onto my feet, flashing a pearly-white grin. "Hi Duckling."

I was trying really hard to keep the smile off my face. I tried to narrow my eyes in annoyance. I tried to purse my lips into a pouty frown. I failed miserably, beaming back at Edward.

"Hi MC. What was the ride for?"

He shrugged, still smiling, and bumped my shoulder with his own. Without talking we both headed for the hallway and beyond that the outside world. We ambled along for moment before he said: "Must be feeding time, right?"

"Right!" I agreed.

"You wanna get burgers?"

"Nah, better have a vegetable."

"What?" He looked scandalized. "I thought the only green things you consumed were Mountain Dew and apple Jolly Ranchers."

"I'm trying to avoid scurvy. It's so last season. I want to die of something good like leprosy, or dinosaur-flu."

"Cause birds are kinda descendants of dinosaurs?" he puzzled.

"No, cause it would be a cool thing to have in your obit."

"Bella Swan, known to her loved ones as Duckling, succumbed after a lengthy battle to acute dinosaur-flu."

"Since when are you my 'loved ones'?"

"Since you got dinosaur-flu and married me to cheat the system and take advantage of my excellent medical insurance. Also, Carlisle's a kickass surgeon so he hooked you up with good docs."

"Who the hell is Carlisle?"

"Esme's husband."

"Cool. I want cheese-fries. Do they still count as one of my five-a-day?"

His reply was deadpan: "Only in the universe where you get dinosaur-flu and die."

"Bah."

The dining hall wasn't exactly _haute cuisine_, but it was better than Hot Pockets and dry Lucky Charms. I only ever ate the marshmallows out of the bag anyway. One time I tried adding milk right into the bag like you see people do in movies. That does not work. The plastic bag thing slipped and milk ended up soaking through the cardboard and all over my pajama pants, and my mom's handcrafted patchwork friendship blanket, and my pajama pants.

Also, if you leave items covered in milk at the bottom of the laundry basket... bad things happen. My mom had to throw out her handcrafted patchwork friendship blanket. Luckily I was visiting my dad for the next set of holidays.

Sometimes I think I'll make her another one... or find somewhere that sells them online, but I figure that will just remind her of the unfortunate milk incident and the site of congealed Lucky Charm marshmallows and sour milk clotting on her beloved blanket.

It was probably best for many reasons that I was headed to the dining hall with Pretty Boy and not attempting to cook in the scabby microwave I had set up in the corner of my dorm room where it could easily be hidden with a cardboard box, a blanket, and a small vanity mirror with the glass in the shape of a heart.

Contraband electrical equipment? No! Tiny, pathetic dressing table. I figured on a scale of how-terrible-is-this-lie? I was pretty low. Way lower than the guy down the hall who had crafted a false floor to his closet so that he could hide his bong.

Either way — it was probably for the best that we were surrounded by various institutions willing to feed me without any active participation on my part in the cooking process. I was going to make some guy a really crappy housewife one day.

We ate. We met people we knew. I made fun of Pretty Boy. Girls on the table next to us with balloon boobs and purses I could fit inside batted their eyelashes at Edward. I made gagging noises. We ate some more.

"Is your stomach sufficiently lined?"

"Huh?" I looked up from my fries.

"Have you inhaled enough fried food to soak up tonight's alcohol ration?" Pretty Boy grinned and his teeth glimmered in the strip lighting. It was unfair. Nobody's supposed to look good in strip lighting. Vaguely jaundiced? Yes. Good? No.

"Eh," I replied, "I'll take my chances. Mike will have snacks on hand anyway. One of his roommates works at the 7-11 across the street from that pancake place on the corner. Nearly-to-recently expired snack foods are his 401K."

"You've eaten all this and you still feel the need to eat expired Doritos if presented with the chance? Really, Duckling? Your stomach is crying right now."

"Since when is my stomach autonomous?"

"Probably since you started feeding yourself."

"Eh. I don't see how bagged Doritos can go bad anyway. They're like embalmed in preservatives."

"I can't see anyway in which that could be a _good _thing."

I grinned up at him. "Tasty!"

I finished the last fry and turned around in my seat so that I was facing Pretty Boy's profile. His nose was really straight. I turned my thoughts away from touching his nose which would be, quite frankly, really, really weird. "I'm done!"

"Cool, I think they're trying to guilt us out of here anyway."

One by one unneeded lights and equipment had been turned off. Pretty Boy was right, the dining room staff were cleaning the other side of the room and shooting us not so subtle glances. I narrowed my eyes. "Now I want to eat more to spite them."

Pretty Boy stood, pulling me up by my elbow. "And miss the wonders of keg beer and restroom queues?"

"You're right. They do say the college experience is invaluable."

We started walking toward the parking lot. "Most important skill you've learned so far in college?"

"Oh, how to type with wet nails. No doubt. Right now, I'm working on snacking with wet nails... I think chopsticks could be the answer."

He opened the car door for me without a word and shut it carefully behind me. Chivalry was apparently still thriving in small doses. Pretty Boy got in the driver's side and as his door closed the overwhelming, comforting smell of leather and clean boy surrounded us — only spoiled a teeny bit by the faint smell of fry grease which I think was clinging to my hair.

Edward put the car into drive, a slick way-too-arousing purring came from the engine, and looked over to me. "Party?"

"Party!" I agreed.

A tangled, soupy, nauseous suspense wriggled around in my stomach as we headed to Mike's, and I really started to regret the second portion of fries.

* * *

_AN: You guys are amazing. Thank you all for the wonderful reviews, the recs, and all the support. This is so much fun to write. Sorry it's been so long for an update, unfortunately I had to attend a funeral out of the country so writing wasn't really on my to-do list. Chapter 7 is actually almost finished (originally 6 and 7 were one big chapter but they seemed to work better as two) and will be up in the next day or two. After that I'll try to stick to an update a week-ish. :)_


	7. Chapter 7

The beer was frothy and it wasn't until at least the end of the second or third cup that I began to feel spinny. It was nice — I was floaty and giddy but my feet were still firmly — kinda... — on the ground. No drunken stumbling for Bella! None yet, anyway.

Mike's party had been in full swing for awhile now. Long enough that there was a little property damage, a little nudity, and a whole lot of drunken girls grinding up against each other in front of the DJ — some senior with a backwards cap and a douche-y attitude who wouldn't play Sweet Home Alabama even though that song gets exponentially better the more drunk you are.

He was my nemesis now.

I wandered aimlessly through the house — five guys from Mike's team lived there pretty much on top of each other (including the Snack Food Samurai who had provided A+ chips and candy for the evening's festivities — who knew Twizzlers even had an expiration date?), and the party looked like everyone they had ever met had invited everyone _they _had ever met, and then gone driving around to pick up a couple of strangers to join them. It was like that every couple of weeks.

The frequency of Mike's parties was largely dependent on how quickly-slash-cheaply the aforementioned minor property damage could be fixed.

I turned down the hall and made my way into the main room. DJ Dickface was still spinning what sounded like the same three rap songs over and over and over. I was totally planning to somehow hook my iPod up to the sound system later when he went to take a leak.

I saw Pretty Boy across the lounge. He was sunk deep into a heavily stuff armed chair that has obviously been inherited from someone — it was covered in embroidered granny roses. The beer stains covering it were decidedly less grandma-like. I danced over with a big smile on my face, the beer was really my friend. Really, really. My teeth were beginning to hurt a little from all the smiling. I flopped down onto the armrest of his granny chair.

"Hi MC."

Pretty Boy grabbed my thigh and pulled me down into the chair with him. "Hey Duckling."  
I landed mostly on his lap and swung my feet over the top of the opposite armrest. His face was flushed apple-red, and he was grinning and warm. I liked him smiley. I let my head fall back against his shoulder — lolling comfortably.

A couple of people were sitting around us, including Jess who was perched on the edge of a coffee table drinking some sort of very, _very _pink punch. It looked like Barbie had peed in her cup.

"You guys are so _cute_," she gushed.

I could feel myself turning pinker than her drink, and I took a gulp of beer — trying to hide my face behind the cup.

"You _are_," she insisted. "Aren't they?"

The girl to her right agreed emphatically. "You guys would have the best babies. Oh-my-god, people would want to, like, buy them."

I tried to free myself from Pretty Boy's lap, as he burst out laughing and escape for more beer but he kept hold of a handful of the back of my shirt — keeping me where I was.

I craned my neck to see him. "Need more beer."

He pouted and the sudden, violent — probably beer-fuelled — urge to lick his bottom lip rose up inside me. "You're keeping my legs warm," he argued.

I shook my empty cup at him. "Thirsty."

He handed me his beer. It was in a bottle. It looked a lot nicer than the crap I had been drinking. "Compromise?"

"Where'd you get this?"

"I earned it — I listened to Mike talk about college football for half-an-hour while you were in the queue for the bathroom."

I was about to reply when a guy pushed his way into our circle with a dinner plate covered in orange-y looking shots. My nose instantly detected my monstrous foe — _tequila_. There was a carton of salt and some sorry looking withered lemon slices on the side of the plate. Someone keen had clearly cut them up before the party started... maybe before the semester started.

Pretty Boy's arm slid around my waist as he pulled himself up to sit straighter in the chair. I fell more securely into his lap, his hand anchoring my stomach. I flushed from there right up to my cheeks all over again.

I scrunched up my face at the shots. "Hello, liquid degradation!"

"Come on, B. You have to do at least _one _shot!" Jess was an enabler. "It's not a party if you don't do shots!"

I stuck my tongue out at her. "You said that about the funnel. The funnel was evil. The shop assistant who enabled the awful life-choices that followed you purchasing said funnel, and three yards of rubber tubing, and an inflatable mattress was an asshole."

She leaned across to pick up a shot. "You were the one who decided to ride it down the stairs."

"And it would have been awesome... if the house didn't have walls," my argument trailed off.

I looked up at the guy with the plate. His name was Ben, and he was sort-of friends with Edward... at least, they had classes together and didn't hate each other. Good enough for me. I turned my head backwards too quickly and almost smacked my face into Pretty Boy's.

"_Fine_," I replied to Jess. "But you have to submit to peer pressure too, MC." I elbowed him lightly in the ribs, at least I meant it to be light — my elbow-eye coordination was somewhat lacking.

He grinned. "You're peer-pressuring me into submitting to peer-pressure?"

"Yes." I took a shot for myself and handed one back to him.

The girl next to Jess whose name I had never been able to remember grabbed one too, and Ben, and a couple of guys in baggy jeans who gravitated towards us as soon as the dinner plate landed. Ben counted down and I threw the foul smelling liquid down my throat, trying not to choke.

I was very aware that throwing up then and there would mean throwing up on Pretty Boy. I still had some dignity left and I was planning to cling to it like a fat kid to a vending machine.

Our group fell into a good rhythm of drinks, delegating people to retrieve snacks (never me, I am aces at avoiding movement when lazy. Also never Pretty Boy because I was still on top of him), and loudly mocking people who were out of hearing range.

Eventually I needed to pee again and I went on an arduous quest for a clean bathroom. I could smell the puke from the main restroom before I even got near that end of the hall, there was also a line outside that made me think maybe it was secretly Narnia... or a Justin Timberlake concert was going on in there. I avoided joining the line out of sheer curiosity and snuck upstairs.

What I mean by 'snuck' is 'tripped violently over a semi-naked couple and then proceeded the rest of the way on my hands and feet until I hit level ground again'.

It took a couple of tries but eventually I hit the jackpot... en suite! Okay, so it was a college guy's en suite which invariably meant suspicious hair in the shower drain, sports socks on the floor in the corner and every square inch of tiling covered in used toothpaste... but it was vomit free. My standards just so happened to lie at vomit free.

Even in my inebriated state I managed to pee without actually touching anything. I took my chances with the liquid soap, and made my way back out into the main bedroom.

"Hey."

"Hi."

Pretty Boy was sitting on the edge of the queen-sized bed. He gave me a little wave and took a swig of his beer before setting it on the side table.

"Were you listening to me pee?"

He burst out laughing, and I moved to sit beside him — I backhanded his upper arm as hard as I could. "Urgh, perv."

"You are _so _weird. So weird, Duckling. I wasn't fucking listening to you pee. I was trying to find you — I'm bored, it's really noisy downstairs, and some dick keeps trying to cook a mouldy quiche in the oven. Every time he turns away his girlfriend turns the oven off, then he realizes it's not cooking and turns it on, et cetera."

I shrugged. "You wanna go?"

He shook his head. "Just wanna hang out with you."

"Cool. Hey, did you see —" I stopped, startled, as Pretty Boy suddenly turned toward me, leaning forward. The room was mostly dark — just the light I'd left on in the bathroom shone an orange-y glow into the room. The door had fallen closed and the sounds downstairs were muffled as though they were a million miles away.

Were were alone, and I thought I might have a heart attack.

My gaze was drawn to his lips. My eyelids felt heavy, the room was hot, and humid, and all I could focus on was his incredible smell and the feel of his hand stroking my arm up and down in hypnotizing lengths. I blinked, and we were eye to eye. I could feel his breath against my mouth. My face was tipping forward, upward, without my permission.

Pretty Boy leaned closer. I felt feverish and hot like my skin was too tight. My breath caught and held. His bottom lip glistened where he had licked it. His hand lifted toward my face; his fingers lightly brushing my cheek. His lips parted and I let my eyes fall closed.

They snapped open again at the sound of his voice: "Eyelash."

"Wha—?"

I looked down and saw a stray eyelash precariously balanced on the tip of his pointer finger, right in front of my face. I felt sick. I let my breath out in a rush — I hadn't even realized I was still holding it — and it blew the thing away.

Pretty Boy seemed completely oblivious to my embarrassment and devastation. "Did you make a wish?"

"They don't come true," I mumbled.

He laughed. "Such a cynic. You need a rocking chair and a shotgun so you can scare the neighbor kids."

I tried to smile but my stomach suddenly felt too heavy. I jumped up off the edge of the bed and attempted to shake off my pathetic, and quell the creepy thoughts I was having about Pretty Boy's person. The boy didn't have pores, and up close his eyes were like deep, green kaleidoscopes — full of pretty shapes and colors. I swallowed hard, trying on my poker face.

"Come on, I need to scavenge. My carb stores are seriously depleting!"

His face scrunched up the tiniest bit as he took in my expression, and then his whole face smoothed out. He smiled — a small, wry thing capped off with an eye roll. "Sure you do. Don't worry, Ducking, I saw Ty stashing some Hershey's bars in the fridge earlier."

* * *

_AN: Hello lovelies, as always thank you so much for sticking with me. To say an extra thank you, everyone who reviews will get a little snippet from the next chapter. Just make sure you're signed in so I can reply! If you don't want a teaser just say so. :)_


	8. Chapter 8

My face felt cold, and kind of numb, like a shot of Lidocaine was all up in my cheek. I tried to open my eyes and realized that said cheek was stuck in place. I peeled my skin off the cold underneath me and let it fall back into place with my eyes now open.

I groaned, uncomfortably: "The view from the bathroom floor this morning is great."

From my limited field of vision I had assumed I was alone. If I could have moved I would have jumped when Edward replied: "Hey Drunkard."

"Why'm I here? Did I throw up?"

"You were eating pizza in the shower when you passed out. And no, but frankly that's an unexplained miracle."

I frowned into the cold, bathroom tiles. "Why was there pizza?"

"Cause you made Mike order it. You also made the delivery guy do two tequila shots with you before you'd let anyone pay."

"Oh man, please tell me he didn't do it?" I pouted into the floor. "My mouth tastes like _ass_. I hate everything."

Pretty Boy chuckled. It sounded nice. Loud, but nice. "He did. I still have his keys."

"You took his keys?" I squinted up at him.

He nodded. "I took his keys."

"That was nice. You did a nice thing. Why couldn't your nice thing have been putting me on a bed? Why was I in the shower?"

"Sleeping on the floor had a low risk of being fatal. Driving a tiny pizza moped after four shots of tequila seemed more worthy of my Boy Scout good deed for the day."

"You said two."

"I said you forced him to take two. The second two required no coaxing."

From my vantage point — face pressed against the cool tiles — I could just about see when Pretty Boy rolled his eyes, and pushed himself upright from where he was leaning against the door frame. He grabbed a glass from the counter, emptied out the toothbrushes currently inside it, and rinsed out all the dried-on toothpaste from the inside. He swished some bright green mouthwash around inside it, who knows why, and then filled it with water. He placed the glass on the floor next to my nose.

"I need a straw. Glass so far away."

He sat down on the floor, leaning his back against the counter. Edward nudged the glass toward my face with his pointer finger, bumping it against my nose.

"Merghhh."

"You still have pizza left in the shower if you need to get your strength up."

"I do not get why I was eating it in there. So gross."

"You were having possessive issues with the pepperoni. A glass wall separating you and the pizza from the rest of us seemed to do the trick."

I scrunched up my face in disgust. "Why are you not hungover?"

He shrugged. "I am, kind of. I have a headache but I took a fistful of Tylenol awhile ago."

"You did not." Despite the throbbing, agonizing pain it incited in my temples I smiled. "You took two and you made sure they were in their original packaging and read the instruction label to check two was the regular dosage."

He poked my shoulder with his shoe, in annoyance. I grunted in response.

In a smaller voice, I asked: "Am I drooling?"

"We might need to erect a little 'Wet Floor' sign next to your head in case people slip."

"Did I do anything stupid?"

"Define 'stupid'."

"Oh _man_." I wanted to cry. I hated the... embarrassment that went along with drinking. Okay, so not so much drinking as _drinking_. I liked being drunk. It was fun, and illegal in a totally socially-accepted way. Everybody drinks at college and I never slept around or did drugs. I just said stupid things too loudly and admitted all my feelings and threw up... although I seemed to have managed impulse control on two of those things the night before.

Pretty Boy leaned forward and stroked my sticky, greasy, alcohol-soaked bangs away from my face. I closed my eyes.

His voice was softer when he asked: "You wanna go home?"

"I wanna time-travel to before the beer."

A smile was clear in his words. He teased: "And the punch. And the tequila shots. And the watermelon wine-cooler things."

"Or to a time after aspirin, and after embarrassment."

"That time is never. You took off your bra to win an argument about whether or not it could be done without taking off your shirt. I will remind you about this forever."

I groaned. "You're a bad friend."

"You're a bad drunk." His fingers were still in my hair, catching up all the stray tendrils around my face and pushing them back towards my crown. I had never been so glad to have layers in all my life.

"Touche."

His hands left my hair and wrapped around my ribs to pull me up to my knees. "Come on, Duckie. Home time."

I let my arms flop toward him uselessly. "Carry me?"

He cocked an eyebrow, still holding me up. "People will think you OD'd and I'm getting rid of the body."

"Piggy back?" I suggested hopefully.

"Do you really deserve a piggy back? You dragged me aaaall the way off campus and then ditched me for a dirty bathroom rendezvous. You didn't even invite me."

I huffed. "It can be your good deed for the day. You haven't done today's yet."

"Not leaving you here was the good deed."

"But if there's no piggy back you _will _be leaving me here. Pity the drunk fool."

"Oh," he pretended to consider me at arms length, "tiny, pasty brunette pretending to be Mr T is the saddest thing I've ever seen."

I pouted: "See?"

Pretty Boy's only response was a loud sigh. He rolled his eyes and crouched down in front of me so I didn't have to try and gather the coordination to jump. It was so wise of him.

I wrapped my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck, resting my chin on my forearm which in turn rested on his shoulder. "You're my favorite," I said against his neck, sleepily.

"Sure, for the length of time it takes to carry you home."

I admitted: "Not just for then."

"Bella?" he asked, softly.

"Yeah?"

"You're my favorite too."

"Good." I snuggled further into his shoulder, settling comfortably on his back, and closed my eyes.

I bounced lightly with each of Pretty Boy's steps. The movement lulled me into a state even closer to comatose, like a baby with motion-related narcolepsy. He had picked his way around the various abandoned party-goers with surprising grace and even managed to navigate out of the front door without dropping me.

We'd — fine, _he'd _— been walking in silence for awhile when suddenly I realized: "MC, your car is at Mike's!"

"_Fuck_. You distracted me! We could be driving right now rather than putting me in the running for a premature hip replacement."

I dug my chin into his shoulder in retaliation. "Whatev, I'm not that heavy. Where are we anyway?"

"Pretty much exactly halfway."

I snorted, and then recommenced using his shoulder as a pillow. "Don't lose momentum, MC," I mumbled. "I need soap, and a latte, and a nap."

He landed hard on his next step, deliberately jolting me. Asshole. Before I could bitch him out for it an unearthly, awful shrieking noise surrounded us from seemingly nowhere. I screwed my eyes shut. "Oh God, make it stop."

"It's my cell."

"Please answer it, please. I think I'm dying. Honestly, MC, it's giving me brain damage."

He craned his neck around to try and look at me while he spoke, but that just put our faces too close together (not gonna lie, no such thing, even with the threat of morning breath — although Pretty Boy was surprisingly minty as though he had the foresight to steal mouthwash before I woke up) so he quickly gave up: "I'm holding you up. Grab it from my pocket."

"Urgh," I groaned into his neck. "Which one? How is your ring tone this long? Why aren't they hanging up?"

He teased: "I know some really stubborn people."

"Oh, yeah, sure, make fun of me while I'm hungover. Let's make that a staple of our relationship."

Then — blissfully — the ringing stopped.

Before I could celebrate it started up again.

"Oh holy hell — which pocket?"

I could hear the smirk in Pretty Boy's voice. "Back-right of my pants."

"Fuck, I can't get it. I'll fall."

As much as I would have loved to retrieve his cell phone in that moment — for many reasons: stopping the noise, maybe bitching out the person on the other end of the line, definitely copping a feel of his ass — I didn't trust myself to stay upright while having to lean back in order to get into said pocket.

The ringing stopped suddenly before Edward could suggest that I get off him and walk the rest of the way home like a normal had been so desperate to speak with him obviously got bored. We continued on in the same fashion we had left Mike's until finally, finally we reached the edge of the parking lot outside our building.

Hot shower and cold Starbucks were in my not too distant future! The world made sense again.

Just as we crossed the threshold of the lot a voice rang out loudly against the tarmac. "Baby E!"

Pretty Boy's grip on my legs faltered and I felt a jolt as I began to fall. I clung to his neck like a koala — trying to save myself from ass-planting by climbing up him in a way that was entirely too energetic for sober-me, let alone hungover-me — until he realized and grabbed under my knees again, hitching me more securely up his back.

A waif-like woman was running across the parking lot towards us. In fact she was sprinting in four inch heels... and they had a little platform. Her hair hung just above her shoulders in a feathery bob that was currently blowing all around her face from the running, her hair was a little darker than Pretty Boy's.

I jumped down from Edward's back of my own accord as she neared us, at speed, getting out of the way just in time for her to jump on top of Pretty Boy. Her arms wrapped around his neck and he swung her around. One of the pointy shoes nearly took out my eye.

"Lissie!"

He put her down carefully and as she landed her hair fell perfectly around her high cheekbones. They were definitely related.

"Baby E!" She repeated. "Your phone is off!"

He pulled it out of his back pocket, and held up both hands as he inclined his head toward me. "No free hands."

The woman raised a single eyebrow with an expression I would have killed to replicate, and replied: "Is that so?"

I blushed painfully. I think blood vessels in my face burst permanently.

Pretty Boy nudged my shoulder gently with his. "Bella, this is my sister, Alice. Lissie, this is Bella." He nodded across the lot to where Alice had appeared from — a tall blond guy was leaning against an unsurprisingly expensive looking car. "That's Alice's husband, Jasper."

"He's unpacking presents," Alice agreed. "It's lovely to meet you."

"Uh, hi." I sent an awkward wave in her direction. It was too early to deal with grown-ups.

"What're you even doing here, Liss?"

"I can't miss you, you ungrateful brat?"

"I guess. Is it just you guys?"

"Well... we thought maybe we could drag you away from life on campus for the day. Wanna rock up at home for some Sunday lunch?"

"Uh, I dunno. I mean you could've given me some notice."

"Cause you have so many important prior engagements at college on a Sunday? Planning some laundry? Beer pong tournement? We'll totally set one up for you in the sun room, but I warn you I almost went pro while you were in grade school."

His eyes narrowed. "I hate you."

"_Thanks_, babe." She rolled her eyes at him, and I could see where Pretty Boy had inherited the trait. "C'mon, it'll be fun. I thought that's why we dragged you all the way back here — so we could see some more of your pretty face."

Pretty Boy was blushing almost as much as I was. In fact he was positively squirming. It was hilarious. "I was going to hang out with Bella today."

"She's invited, E, we're not complete social savages. What'd'ya say guys? The food'll be great."

Pretty Boy turned to me and admitted: "The food is really good."

"Okay, I guess. Thanks," I mumbled.

"Great! Let's go — Jazz can take the supplies we brought up with you and then we'll head off."

"We need to shower."

The eyebrow went up again and Pretty Boy's returning expression did an amazing impression of kill-rage-destroy Bella. Alice smirked, and held her hands palm up as a peace offering.

"We should just take another car, meet you guys there," he continued. "Makes more sense for getting back tonight."

"Oh, babe, you know Jazz'll drive you."

"Yeah, I know, but it's cool."

"Okay, okay." She glanced at her watch. "It's not ten yet so we'll see you back at the house before lunch. Here's" — she pulled out a slim, leather wallet from her gigantic purse and pulled out a fan of crisp bills — "gas money, and if you're late I'm gonna call your cell every ten minutes until you show."

He took the money and pretended to fan himself with it, laughingly. "Consider me warned."

"C'mon, Duckling."

We trudged over to the shiny car and Alice's husband handed over a bunch of paper grocery bags to Pretty Boy, who insisted he didn't need help carrying them up the stairs.

Alice stepped forward to give Edward a kiss on the cheek, around all the bags in his arms. "Okay, love birds — scrub up! We'll see you later."

"_Alice_!"

"What?"

"I have post traumatic stress disorder from being raised by you."

She smirked with a cute little twitch of her nose, and then her and Mr Tall, Blond and Gorgeous were back in the car — pulling out of the lot much too quickly for Sunday morning traffic to handle.

I looked over at Pretty Boy, my entire being deadpan.

His face looked repentant, his lips just a little pouty. "Sorry?"

Instead of responding I pursed my own lips and gave him a swift kick to his leg before marching inside. "We're stopping for lattes on the way."

* * *

_AN: You guys are so incredible; I'm having so much fun! Thank you for reading! Reviews for this chapter get a teaser for the next - just make sure you're signed in and have Private Messaging turned on, a couple of you didn't last time around!_


	9. Chapter 9

I rolled down the window and leaned back into my squishy, leather seat. Pretty Boy's car had new car smell — which, I guess, is what happens when you're actually older than your car. I wouldn't know.

I felt saturated in hangover. The cool breeze through the crack at the top of the window was the only thing stopping me from throwing up into the glove compartment, but the chill from outside threatened to give my nipples frostbite. Edward had the heaters running at full blast — we were fighting a war; the higher he turned the heat, the lower I rolled the window.

Pretty Boy didn't seem to appreciate how close he was coming to having the new car smell wiped out permanently by the contents of my stomach.

He bitched: "Duckling! I can't change gears if my hands are paralyzed from ice."

"That's what you get for having a European car. What's wrong with an automatic?"

He rolled his eyes and hit the override switch to close my window. Instantly I jabbed at the switch on my side so that the glass did a little jig up and down. "Just close it a little — the backseat looks like fucking Narnia."

"Those aren't snowdrifts, you dick, more like your dandruff."

He threw up his hands in frustration and let them smack back down on the steering wheel. "Fuck you, seriously."

I let my head thump back against my headrest. My insides felt like they were churning around and the tight corners that Pretty Boy kept taking sharply were not helping. "Shit, I'm sorry, MC! I feel sick, okay? Just stop shouting at me!"

"Well that's what happens when you replace half your blood count with tequila."

"I'm _sorry_!"

When he spoke again, Edward sounded more upset than angry: "I just — I don't get you. I thought I did, but I don't. You're such a bitch sometimes."

"Only sometimes? You're a dick most of the time," I parried back.

Pretty Boy didn't reply. We continued on in silence for another ten minutes. It unnerved me. I wished I had just stayed at the dorms and napped. I thought the iced latte we picked up on the way would settle my stomach, but combined with movement it seemed to be having the opposite effect.

I picked up the cup out of the holder and rattled the ice inside it before holding it against my temple. It made me feel better for a second before I started to get brain freeze. Pretty Boy was still giving me side eyes and for a moment I considered pitching the cup at his head for old time's sake.

I would have done it too if he weren't holding my life in his hands. Knowing my luck he would crash and my side of the car would get run under a trailer rig slowly crushing me to death while he stepped out of the driver's door unscratched.

I crushed the plastic cup a little in my fist instead.

A drop of melty ice-water leaked out and hit the leather interior. Pretty Boy's expression darkened. "We're almost there — can you just pretend to be nice to my sisters? Then we can get the fuck out of there after dinner and forget about all this."

The way he said 'all this' made my stomach bottom out. It didn't sound like he meant the car ride, and the bitching. It sounded like Edward had actually had enough of me completely. We'd known each other for less than two weeks. Was that really all any one person could possibly take of me in large doses?

My voice was contrite, and quiet when I replied: "I said I was sorry."

His tone wasn't venomous or bitchy when he replied; it seemed resigned: "You're always sorry; it doesn't ever stop you from being a bitch though." He shrugged and swung the wheel so that the car flew up a well maintained side road.

Their house had a circular drive. The building itself looked light, and clean, and very, very big.

"Shit son, Alice's hubby must do okay."

Pretty Boy stopped the car in the middle of the drive like he owned the place and didn't give a shit about blocking anyone in. He climbed out and slammed his door, but still made it around to open mine for me while I was gathering up my stuff.

"This isn't Alice's place. This is home — Esme and Carlisle live here."

"Where you grew up? MC, this is where you grew up?"

"No shit," he sniped. "Esme moved back in when my mom and dad died."

My face fell, and I felt like the biggest idiot. "You could have warned me. Now I have to meet the woman who's pretty much your mom and I look like a crack addict. I'm not parent-ready. I thought it was just your sister."

"It _is _just my sister. She's not gonna care."

I climbed out and he shut my door behind me. He was being a pissy bitch, but he still had manners — it would have been endearing under other circumstances. When we got to the front of the house he pushed the giant, glass-panelled door open; it wasn't even locked.

Edward took my coat and threw it up on a rack in the foyer along with his own. I looked down at what I was wearing and grimaced. It wasn't my morning after uniform — even I knew that you didn't go meet people for Sunday lunch in a grotty hoodie — but, it wasn't great: skinny jeans, a little too big, and a t-shirt. Pretty Boy was decked out similarly (minus the skinny part on the jeans front) and looked immaculate other than his face being a little paler, and his hair a little messier. Urgh, he sucked.

He lead me down the hall and around the corner into a large, open space full of scattered, tastefully coordinated furniture. As we stepped across the thresh hold of the room there was shouting, really loud shouting.

"_Surprise_!"

There were not two incredibly gorgeous women related to Pretty Boy in the house — there were four, and they were all clustered around a large glass coffee table, near a huge shiny piano, showing off sets of incredibly white, incredibly straight teeth.

Pretty Boy's face scrunched up a little at the noise. "What are you guys doing here?" he asked.

Alice piped up: "T was flying in so we made Rosie visit too! Everyone just got in this morning."

Fuck, and now I was crashing a family reunion. I could not have been less impressed with life if I tried.

"This is my friend, Bella." Pretty Boy introduced me with a nod, but didn't stop to introduce everyone back to me. The two eldest women stood next to each other, one blonder and skinnier than the other. The one with darker hair had a disapproving expression and that familiar cocked eyebrow. She didn't look best pleased with Pretty Boy.

She moved toward us, and landed a quick kiss on Pretty Boy's cheek as she spoke: "Edward, baby, don't be a dick — you can't expect your friend to guess who everyone is."

Pretty Boy looked pissy again. "Sure, _Mom_."

The woman stepped around him, her hand outstretched toward me. "Esme — pleasure to meet you, Bella."

The skinny woman who had been next to her came forward too, slapped Pretty Boy upside the head, and then ruffled his hair affectionately — causing him to grimace. "You're such a little shit sometimes, E." She rolled her eyes at him and looked to me conspiratorially. "He only calls her mom when he wants something or he's being a brat."

Despite myself a little smirk crept into the corners of my mouth. I tried to cover my laughter with a very fake cough. "You have no shame," I hissed at him. It was pretty hilarious watching Pretty Boy get harassed by his sisters. I was actually beginning to enjoy the visit.

The skinny one offered me her hand, which I took awkwardly. I think the last time I shook so many hands someone gave me a high school diploma at the end of the experience. "Tanya — nice to meet you. Glad you see you're not letting this one get away with anything."

The next sister was taller, blonder, and built like a swimsuit model. She didn't stand but waved from her perch on one of the many love-seats. "Rosalie."

Alice inclined her head with a quick flutter of her fingers to complete the circuit.

If you put them in a line up: Alice, Esme, Tanya, and Rosalie — they got taller, and blonder from beginning to end. Then there was Pretty Boy — taller than them all, with dark hair like Alice but the reddish tint that Tanya shared. They all had startling eyes — Tanya and Rosalie's were ice blue, the others had Pretty Boy's deep, bright green.

It was vaguely painful to look at them. There was still shampoo in my hair cause I hadn't rinsed it properly, and I definitely had a deathly glow about me that any zombie bride would be proud to sport.

The rest of the day was a blur of awkward moments, embarrassing moments, and ridiculously good food.

Things went a little like this:

"So, Bella, what are you studying?"

"I don't have a major yet. Probably English Lit — that's what everyone who doesn't know what the hell they want to do takes, right?"

Alice sighed, and leaned back in her chair, twisting the twizzle stick in her glass. "I think I majored in the scientific studies of how much abuse one trust fund can take."

Tanya leaned over her to steal a chip, and added: "Didn't you max out a no limit AMEX your sophomore year?"

"It wasn't maxed out... they just thought it'd been stolen," Alice defended.

And a bit of this:

Rosalie wandered into the room — with a fresh glass — and perched herself on the edge of Pretty Boy's couch. "Oh, Edward, they're picking up your Bösendorfer from the brownstone next week. You won't have to be parted from your sweetheart much longer."

Pretty Boy's eyes lit up despite his shitty mood. "My baby! Did you take good care of it?"

"_Completely_ — the guy in the store tells me this spray wax they sell will get the water rings out of the surface no problem."

"Why do you say things like this," he grumbled. "I thought you loved me."

"Are the rest of you musical?" I asked. I hadn't spoken for awhile; it was unusual for me and I figured I should probably remember to chime in every now and then — other wise Pretty Boy's sisters were going to think he was friends with a selective mute.

They all laughed, and I suddenly wished I hadn't bothered trying to speak at all. My last blush had just subsided and another one was starting already. Tanya raised her hand in a little wave and Pretty Boy pulled Rosalie's free hand into the air.

"I'm no virtuoso like Baby E but I work as a scout back in Cali," Tanya explained.

I replied, awkwardly: "Oh, cool."

Alice piped up just as Rosalie had wrestled her arm away from Pretty Boy. "Ro plays though — violin, and piano like E."

"Yeah," she admitted, "under protest."

And a little more of this:

Somehow I was alone with Esme in their mammoth kitchen. I could not have felt more out of place. Unless every crisp, white cabinet was secretly packed full of Red Vines and microwave popcorn I was going to be no help.

She kept darting between a hidden spice wrack in one of the higher cupboards and a roast in the oven that looked better dressed than I was.

Ostensibly I had wandered in of my own accord to get another Coke since their wet bar in the lounge was completely devoted to liquids of another sort. I had a horrible feeling, though, that I had been herded in there without realizing so that Pretty Boy's remaining trio of sisters could gossip to him about me.

I had already been cornered by Alice — while she showed me the way to the nearest bathroom — who wanted to know exactly how Pretty Boy 'caught' me, and was it romantic, and was he behaving himself because otherwise she would kick his ass. I think I mumbled something about her having the wrong idea, and promptly turned scarlet. Thankfully she wasn't waiting for me when I came out after splashing copious amounts of water on my face in a lame attempt to cull my blushing.

Esme, on the other hand, hadn't said anything about a possible relationship between me and the pretty one, but seemed to have a habit of calling people "lovely" and "sweets" without realizing it. She had this warm, fuzzy aura about her — like you would totally want her when you scraped your knee, or drank too much and ended up with your head in the toilet. She still made me so nervous I though I would puke though.

"Sweets, Coke is in the fridge — help yourself — or there's Red Bull, I think. Could you grab some ice, too? Oh, and there's condoms in all the upstairs bathrooms, under the sink, in case you ever need them. Do you think these potatoes look crispy enough? I don't want them to burn."

I froze with my hand half in the refrigerator wrapped around a can of Coke. "Excuse me?"

Esme looked totally non-plussed as I turned to face her. She shook the pan of roast potatoes — and even that looked suggestive to me — and asked again: "Crispy enough?"

I blinked hard, and clutched the can to my chest. "Uh, sure."

She smiled, gave me a little wink, and shooed me away. "Thanks, Sweets — go enjoy your drink, remember the ice, you look a little flushed. Get Edward to turn on the AC if you're uncomfortable."

Uncomfortable had reached a whole new level of meaning.

After dinner, and drinks, and hours of Pretty Boy's sisters assuming we were doing the nasty — we finally headed back to town. The journey back was as excruciating as the one there.

Eventually I tried to break the awkward silence. "Your sisters are cool."

"Yeah, they are. They gave up a lot for me."

"Right."

After another agonizing silence, he continued: "T wasn't always a scout. She had a record deal when our parents died."

"Oh wow. But she came home?"

"She came home," he agreed. "Rosalie plays, but she doesn't really... well, she pretty much gave up when she got to college. T's the one who wanted me to take lessons."

"But she moved back, right? You said she moved back not long after... so, couldn't she have just started again?"

His tone was still disagreeable: "Two years is a long time in the industry. People had pretty much forgotten about her. I mean, she didn't have her album finished or anything. They hadn't started promotion. I don't know." He shrugged tightly. Pretty Boy obviously didn't want to talk about it anymore.

"Well, they all really love you — you can tell. It's nice."

Pretty Boy snorted but didn't look my way. "And you can suddenly read human emotions? Alert the media."

I sighed and leaned my head against the window again.

The rest of our ride was silent and when we finally got back to town Pretty Boy didn't even detour so that we could pick up my car from Mike's where we'd left it. He drove straight back to the dorms, screeched into the parking lot, and repeated his grumpy car slamming.

Once we were both outside he mumbled a quick "see ya" and began to stomp off toward the building without waiting for me.

I pulled him back by his wrist, grabbed his jaw in both my hands, and pulled his mouth down to mine.

I couldn't remember ever deliberately kissing someone before. I mean, I had been kissed — plenty — and I had been part of many a mutual, drunken face-plant onto someone else's mouth, but I couldn't remember soberly initiating a kiss ever in my life — let alone with a boy who barely wanted to look at me, forget kiss me.

For a moment his mouth was tense, his bottom lip unmoving as I captured it between both of mine — then Pretty Boy's breath hitched in his chest and before I could give up my ridiculous attempt at reconciliation his hands were digging into either side of my waist tightly, dragging me up his body onto the very points of my tiptoes as he kissed me back.

His mouth opened against mine — hot, and slick, still a little sweet from dessert at his sister's. I thought my head might explode.

I felt all the air in my lungs leave me in one sharp gasp, and I couldn't seem to draw any more in to replace it. Pretty Boy's belt buckle was digging into my stomach. One of my arms looped around his neck to try and balance myself; I hadn't realized before quite how much taller than me he actually was. My neck was craned right back. My other hand traveled up past his high, sharp cheekbones into his hair. It was soft and dry, definitely not dandruff-ridden. It was beautiful.

His tongue stroked mine — softly, just teasing flickers of it. His left arm wrapped around my waist, holding me upright, pressing me to his chest, while his right hand tangled up in my hair.

When we broke apart I didn't let go.

We were toe to toe, his arms still around me. His face only inches from mine as I gazed up at him. I probably looked more earnest in that moment than I ever had. I definitely felt that way — less angry, less bitter, less disconnected.

It didn't matter that my parents were a-emotional, awkward robots, or that I didn't have a date for my high school prom. It didn't matter that people sometimes didn't get my jokes, or thought I was cruel, or that I couldn't name one place on earth that really felt like home.

"I don't mean to be a bitch," I whispered near his mouth, "not all the time."

He brushed my hair back off my face, cradling my head with one hand. "That's your way of apologizing?"

I shrugged as best I could in our entanglement of limbs. My mouth quirked. "Kinda."

I didn't want him to think it was just an apology. I mean who does that? Who kisses someone just because they can't say I'm sorry? I wanted him to realize that I'd been salivating over him since he brought me that bag of muffins... maybe a little before that. I wanted him to get it, and at the same time I was terrified he would.

My heart ricocheted around in my chest. I honestly couldn't decide which would be worse in that moment — rejection or reciprocation.

He ducked his head and kissed me again — just once, holding my bottom lip between his for a few seconds. "Bella?"

"Yeah?"

"Apology accepted."

He pulled back and I grasped the front of his shirt, pulling him back to me quickly, one last time before the real world could encroach. "You do get me," I mumbled against his mouth as we broke apart.

He gave me a small smile and a tiny arch of his eyebrow. We walked inside — side by side — our arms bumping together from shoulder to elbow.

"Hey," he asked, "you wanna go watch Chris slaughter Mike at pool? Apparently there are dares involved, Ben texted me earlier."

I grinned — my heart was still hammering but relief was beginning to flood through my muscles. "I am so on that, just let me go change outta my 'Sunday best'."

I moved to turn down the hall to my own room but I was tugged back by my elbow.

"Hey, Duckling." He kissed me, the kind of kiss that had me leaning up against the wall, unable to feel my extremities, unsure if blood was still bringing oxygen to my brain. Breathless, heart-wrenching, completely-inappropriate-for-a-public-setting kissing. He pulled away, grinning, leaving me against the wall. His bright, white teeth were all even and impeccable. His shiny eyes were warm again for the first time since he carried me home that morning.

He moved away, offering a small wave as he headed toward the staircase on the other side of the hall. "See you soon."

"I hate you," I called after him. My breathy tone made his retreating figure laugh affectionately, and the deep tones hit me down low in my gut. Oh boy.

* * *

_AN: Thank you all for reading! Especially big thank yous to those of you who have been pimping my little story out - you have no idea how warm and fuzzy it makes me feel! As usual reviews get a teaser for the next chapter._


	10. Chapter 10

I had one foot in my pants when somebody knocked on my door.

"Hang on!" I cried, hopping to try and get my leg completely inside my leggings. I had on a fresh tank already and there was a giant hoodie on standby, hanging out by my bed, just to make sure the getup was leaving a little to the imagination.

I pulled the stretchy non-pants up over my hips and let the elastic snap, then I opened the door.

Pretty Boy was standing on the other side. He was wearing the same jeans and sweater from earlier, but there was an added little crease between his eyebrows. "I was an ass to you all day and then you kissed me."

I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned against the door frame. The door tried to close itself and came to rest on my back. "What's with the summary? You planning on tweeting my escapades?"

He reached out a hand and touched my bare elbow before pulling back. "I'm sorry."

"Okay. Thanks," I acknowledged. "I get it, y'know, I know I can be difficult."

"I said things I didn't mean."

I nodded. "That's what people do in fights."

"I'm really sorry. My sisters would kick my ass if they knew what a little shit I'd been all day. I blame hangover, and nerves, and _your _hangover —"

"MC, it's okay. Everyone fights. In fact I tend to fight more than the average bear."

The corner of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. "Yeah, yeah, then everyone should probably apologize after."

"I actually quite liked what you did instead."

"You enjoyed cocky, possessive groping in lieu of an apology? Gem among woman!" he joked. His hands came to rest on my shoulders and stroked them warmly as his expression sobered. Pretty Boy lifted one hand to touch my face, just grazing my cheekbone, and let his hand fall back to my shoulder. "Don't put up with that shit though, not from anyone — _definitely _not from me."

I unhooked my arms and grabbed his wrists, shaking them while his hands still rested on my shoulders. "Just warn me the next time you have PMS. I'll be sensitive to it."

He deadpanned: "Ha ha."

I moved backwards into my room; Pretty Boy followed me. I flopped back on my bed — still neatly made since I had slept on someone's bathroom floor the night before — and wriggled around to get comfortable. Edward moved toward Jenna's bed as usual. I stretched out an arm, making a grasping gesture with my fingers although he was too far away for me to actually grab.

"MC, where you going?"

He raised an eyebrow in question and gestured dramatically at the spare bed.

"Come here. I'm sleepy."

"You don't have to come out. You can sleep, Duckling. I'll see you in the morning."

"No — nap time. Just an hour; I'll go out after. Promise. Wake me up when it's time to go."

I was still making a grabby hand at him and Pretty Boy finally took the hint and perched himself on the edge of my bed. I rolled my eyes and tugged backwards on his arm.

"This is going to be difficult if you're going to start being a gentleman."

"Hey. When was I not?"

"Do not get me started, MC. I need to make up for my sleep deficit."

He shrugged and lay back next to me on the bed, scooching me over so that I had to roll onto my side — facing him — to keep from falling.

I hooked my leg over his and planted my head on his chest. He stroked his hand through my hair, and played with the ends where they fell just below my shoulder blades. A haircut was in desperate need but I had been too lazy since I moved out.

"You have shoes on," I muttered into his t-shirt.

I could practically feel him roll his eyes above my head. "I can't sit up if you're on top of me."

"Kick them off."

He did as he was asked. I felt some fumbling near his hips and then his belt hit the floor too. "Better?"

"Uh huh. Remember to wake me up."

I was suddenly exhausted. The whole weekend had been a clusterfuck of activity — good and bad — and although my hangover was mostly gone it was slowly coaxing down my eyelids. I let them fall closed and the comfortable rise and fall of Pretty Boy's breathing lull me to sleep.

I woke up with a crick in my neck and a dead arm. I moved it awkwardly and my eyes snapped open as the blood rushed painfully back into my squashed limb. Blinking heavily I became aware that I was face to face with... jeans. Seriously tented jeans.

Squinting down I saw the reason my pillow seemed harder than usual — my head was resting on Pretty Boy's stomach. His t-shirt had ridden up in the night — probably as I ninja-ed my way into facing the complete opposite direction, and halfway down the bed — so that one side of my face was becoming nicely acquainted with his abs. I had probably drooled on them while I was asleep, ergh.

My eyes were drawn back to the jeans, and what they contained. Then, as I squinted in the shaft of sunlight streaming through my window, I realized it was morning. It was morning. Pretty Boy had not woken me up. Pretty Boy had fallen asleep underneath me and we had class in... I peered over to the clock... fifteen minutes.

I sat up straight, my hand falling onto Edward's stomach. "Wake up!"

"Hmm?"

"MC, wake up! We're gonna be late!"

He swatted lightly at my hand and burrowed his face further into the pillow. "Sleep. Don't wanna play pool anyway."

"_Edward_, we're gonna be late for _class_."

"What?" His face scrunched up against the cotton pillow case.

"Class: we have it. In, like, twelve minutes."

He cracked open one eye, squinting at me. "Bella? Why're you in my bed."

"This is _my _bed and you need to get out of it!"

He finally wrapped his fingers around my wrist and tugged, pulling it off his stomach, and pulling me off balance. I tipped over and landed with my head on the pillow facing him.

"Skip. Let's skip."

"I only have one absence left."

"Yeah, so? It's almost the end of the semester."

He let go of my wrist and his hand slipped down to my waist. It moved slowly down to my hip as he spoke. "Stay."

I sighed, balling up my hands in the front of his t-shirt. "This isn't fair."

His eyes were closed again as he shuffled forward a little. He didn't have far to go considering how small the twin bed was. His nose bumped mine.

"Need to brush my teeth," I protested. Even as I complained I scooted over to close the last tiny bit of space between us — we were pressed together from top to toe and I was suddenly very aware of the morning visitor I had spied earlier in his jeans.

He pressed his face into my neck. "Egh, don't move."

I let one of my hands curl into his hair, scratching his scalp lightly with my nails. He made a happy growly noise and opened his mouth against my neck. I gasped and held myself very, very still. Pretty Boy kissed along the side of my throat, mumbling: "So, we're skipping, right?"

I let out a shudder-y breath to reply: "Right, sure. My academic downfall is all on you."

I could feel his breath hot against my collarbone as his lips trailed downwards. The open-mouthed kisses felt like they were scalding me in the best way. I was suddenly short of breath.

He nudged me onto my back, one of his knees falling between my thighs so that Pretty Boy was hovering above me. He was rumpled from sleep; heavy, dark lashes fluttering. He looked adorable. I didn't know how someone who looked so adorable could make me so hot.

He lifted his face to kiss under my jawline before returning to the scoop of my tank top.

"Urgh, I wanna kiss you," I murmured.

He hummed against my skin and I thought it might melt off my bones. "So, kiss me. Since we're not goin' anywhere and all."

"Morning breath..."

He shrugged against me and I could feel his whole body press into mine with the way he moved. "Don't care."

I wrapped my legs around the one he had wedged between them, crossing my ankles.

Pretty Boy had found a spot at the top of my breast — where it peeked out of my tank's scoop neck — and was working it over like it was his job. There was going to be a mark if he didn't move on soon, but it felt too good for me to actually care.

I tugged on his hair, pulling his mouth to mine. His lips were swollen and warm. I was cocooned — warm, disheveled bedsheets underneath me; warm, disheveled Pretty Boy above me. My pulse raced low down in my stomach as he opened his mouth against mine. The hand that wasn't holding him up was resting firmly on my hip, his thumb rubbing back and forth just below my hipbone at the edge of my leggings, making my thighs twitch.

He tugged on the edge of my shirt and I could feel the neck get lower and lower. His mouth followed until his tongue dragged across my nipple and a sharp, strangled noise pulled out of my throat. I was practically panting; my hands quivering. He stopped, looking up at me from my chest. My eyes flickered open and I could just see his eyes through his mop of hair — which had been seriously assaulted by sleep, and my fingers. "You okay?" he asked, sleepily.

I nodded quickly.

That little crease formed between his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

"Uh, yeah, yes," I stuttered unconvincingly.

He shuffled his way back up my body, and rolled back onto his side, taking me with him. I wiggled to get my boob back into my shirt. Pretty Boy laughed against my shoulder at the action and then pulled back again so I could see his eyes. They were glass-green in the morning light like the thick base of a beer bottle, light refracted and sparkled in them.

He pressed a quick kiss to my top lip. "G'morning."

"Mmm, morning."

He murmured: "I know your vote is gonna be coffee and danish, but I vote more sleep."

I pulled my hand from between us to brush Pretty Boy's hair back off his forehead. "I could do more sleep." I was feeling docile, and restless, and uncertain, and ecstatic — unconsciousness would be a respite from the churning contradictory feelings inside me.

"Amazing. Turn over, this bed is too small."

I grunted in protest, but turned so that my back was nestled firmly against his chest. "You made me want danishes," I muttered.

"Later. I will buy you _all _the danishes."

Already drowsy again, I mumbled: "Love danishes."

I fell back to sleep with the vibrations of his laughter rumbling through my body.

* * *

_AN: Firstly — Big apologies to those of you who didn't get your teaser, FFnet was sucking and not letting me post messages! _

_Secondly — This chapter was longer but then there was too much to fit in and it wouldn't work so I had to split it in two, sorry for the short chapter, I'll get the next one out a little faster than usual. _

_Thirdly — Couple of people asked if there'd be an Edward POV, if people are interested then I've considered writing a bit as a one-off, but it won't appear in this story. This is Bella's story, she wouldn't stand for it! _

_Fourthly — Thaaaank you, thank you to everyone reading and reccing! Love you all. _

_Reviews get a teaser for the next chapter! Also, I do have a twitter (sexycereal) I'm better about answering questions, etc. there if you have them. OMG, longest AN ever._


	11. Chapter 11

I woke up, several hours later, stuck to Pretty Boy like white on rice. My face was pressed against his neck — I could feel his pulse, and the five o'clock shadow along his jaw. Peeking upwards I saw that he was still out cold — his pouty mouth slightly open, eyelashes fluttering as they cast long shadows across his cheekbones.

I tried to stretch but apparently the only thing keeping me on the bed was the arm wedged underneath my waist, and the hand on my ass. I was less snuggling Pretty Boy and more clinging for dear life. Still, he was a nice lifesaver.

My left hand was tucked up inside his t-shirt, resting on his chest, and I reluctantly pulled it out to rub the sleep from my eyes. Wiggling down the mattress with more caution than I typically showed in life, I managed to extricate myself enough to sit up. One side of my tank top was up over my right boob, the other side scrunched up under my left — this feat of magically wandering clothing never happened when I slept alone, so I blamed Edward.

The boy in question looked like he'd been through a cycle in a tumble drier. His hair was flattened out, and static. I reached down to smooth some wayward bangs back off his forehead with my palm. His nose twitched like he thought he was Samantha Stephens when I brushed my fingers through the front of his hair. I stifled a snort of laughter.

I climbed off the bed and promptly fell face first onto my hands and knees. The giant modesty-preserving hoodie I had planned to wear out the night before was wrapped around my feet — one in the hood, one down the neck hole. I untangled myself, slipped it on, and craned my neck to see if the Hitchcock-dead-bodies-falling sound of my super graceful landing had woken Pretty Boy. It had not.

The sink was tucked away in the corner of my dorm, and after the morning's first wake up call I was determined to brush my teeth. I would be minty fresh when the boy who licked my nipple at eight am next saw me. The large dollop of Crest balanced precariously on my toothbrush for a moment and then I went to work, trying my best to keep the foam in my mouth, and my resemblance to a rabid dog minimal.

A light groan sounded behind me and I turned to see Pretty Boy yawning. He stretched, ran his hands through his hair and his palms over his eyes, and then he squinted toward the corner where I was standing, little green toothbrush sticking out of my mouth.

"You're far away."

I talked around the foam in my mouth: "Yeah, there's nowhere to spit over there."

"So, swallow."

I rolled my eyes at him and kept brushing.

Pretty Boy grimaced as he sat up in my bed. His hands automatically reached to even out his hair, but short of a shower or three cans of hairspray it was a pointless task.

"I hate your bed."

I spat and pointed the toothbrush at him as I spoke: "You have the same one."

He cracked his neck, making me shudder in disgust, and rolled the shoulder I had been lying on all morning. "Yeah, but I use mine as a couch. Jazz and Em smuggled in a full-size mattress on moving day that now occupies a large portion of my floor."

I knew better than to even bat an eyelash at the ridiculous nicknames — it was like every member of his family had lost a bet. Instead, I rinsed my mouth out, replaced my toothbrush, and moved to sit on the edge of the bed. Pretty Boy was leaning against the headboard — his legs stretched out behind me.

"Jazz — that's Alice's husband, who's Em?" I nudged his thigh with my elbow.

"Emmett, Rosie's fiance."

"He wasn't at lunch."

"Nah, Carlisle took him out to get some wedding stuff for Ro — plus I think it was like family man bonding or something. Em's been around a couple of years but they're in New York so we don't see them much. 'Cept when I was living there."

"Okay," I continued, "most important question..."

"Shoot."

"If you have a full-sized mattress why did we just single-handedly increase campus demand for a chiropractor last night?"

"You sleep on bathroom floors and the bench in the laundry room — your spine is made out of steel."

One of his hands hand snuck to my waist, just sitting there, curled lightly around me, under my hoodie, radiating heat through my thin shirt. Before I could reply he jumped off the bed and made deliberate eyes at my lone toothbrush hanging out in a glass by the sink.

"Don't you dare," I warned.

He moved a little closer.

"Seriously, use your fingers."

He picked up the toothbrush — still wet from when I had just used it — and waved it around a little, cocking his head to one side. He was way too cute for his own good.

I still protested: "It's like putting on someone's used panties!"

Pretty Boy cracked. He nearly dropped the toothbrush because he was laughing so hard. "I'll bet this is slightly more hygienic."

I stood up and pulled the toothbrush from his loose grip. "Do you even know how many germs people have in their mouths?"

"Duckling, if I have any germs you already got them."

I narrowed my eyes a little and he shrugged, squeezing some toothpaste onto his pointer finger to clean his perfect teeth.

When he was done I was still standing awkwardly beside him with the toothbrush in my hand. He rinsed, washed his hands, and turned from the sink — burying his fingers in my hair as he leaned down to kiss me.

I was overwhelmed by firm lips, soft tongue, and the taste of artificial mint.

He pulled back, and smiled at me. "You're so hospitable."

I blinked in response. "You taste clean."

"That's what I was going for."

My hair was damp from his hands but I couldn't bring myself to care enough to bitch about it. hooked my fingers into the neck of his crumpled t-shirt and pulled him down for another kiss.

"You owe me danishes," I reminded him.

"All the danishes," he agreed, knotting his fingers together lightly on my lower back.

"So, I need to shower — since the danishes are currently located in that outside world where they enjoy cleanliness."

He nodded along. "Okay."

"And that was not an invitation — these showers barely fit one person."

"Surely that's a challenge, right?" He grinned.

I laughed: "Wrong."

One of his hands cupped my jaw, his thumb brushing my cheek lightly. "Meet you downstairs in thirty?"

"Sure, bring your wallet and an appetite for breakfast carbs."

He backed up to collect his shoes, lacing them up quickly before he threaded his belt back through the loops on his dangerously low-hanging jeans. He smiled warmly and pulled my door open to leave.

Just as he was stepping across the threshhold my hand shot out — almost of its own accord — and I grabbed his wrist. "Edward?"

He looked back over his shoulder — halfway in my room, and halfway out. "Yeah, Bella?"

"I'm glad you stole my coffee."

His smile got bigger. "It's such an honor to see you discover human emotions — like my very own Short Circuit."

I pursed my lips, trying to look angry and failing miserably. "I'm not Number Five."

He wiggled his wrist free from my grip until our fingers were hooked together. "I'm glad too," he reassured. Then, as he backed away down the corridor, he called back to me: "Even though I totally paid for that coffee."

My mouth dropped open in amused outrage. "You'll pay for it alright!"

I got ready quickly and met Pretty Boy in the parking lot. My car was still at Mike's and we walked to the place where we'd got pancakes that one time so we could swing by on the way back and pick up my hunk of junk. It might be a piece of shit, but it was my piece of shit and I needed it safely in our parking lot in case of hangover-related Starbucks emergencies.

When we arrived I slipped into a booth by the front bank of windows while Pretty Boy went to order. He came back with two fruit danishes, a black coffee, and my first latte of the day.

We were quiet as we ate and drank, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was nice. Or maybe that was all the dairy and sugary carbs swimming around inside me.

Eventually Pretty Boy leaned an elbow on the tabletop between us, resting his head in his hand comfortably. "What're you doing for Christmas?" he asked randomly.

I shrugged and swirled the coffee left in my bowl-like mug. "I dunno."

Pretty Boy frowned. He used his free hand to flake pieces of pastry away from the edge of his danish while he spoke, crumbling them onto the plate. "How do you not know?"

"I dunno. I was supposed to stay with my mom but Philip booked a second honeymoon so I guess I'll go spend it with Charlie."

"Huh?"

"My dad. My mom did this hippy parenting thing — peer-enting or whatever, it's totally a real thing — by the time my dad put his foot down about it, calling them Charlie and Renee had stuck."

"You haven't before," he pointed out.

"I _am _aware how totally weird it is."

"So, staying with your dad."

I nodded slowly, not overly enthusiastic about the prospect. "Yeah, but he'll be working so I have a fun holiday lined up of trying not to kill us in the kitchen and probably watching the Food Network."

"Your dad works Christmas?" he asked.

"Sure, he's police chief — crime never sleeps, y'know. I could probably go hang with him at the station, but it's kind of depressing. Plus, they don't get cable."

"Are you bummed about your mom ditching?"

"Bummed, used to it, whatever — I'm more bummed we won't get catered turkey. She's just flaky, it's not like she's trying to be a bitch or something. How about you?"

"Everyone comes home. Elasticated pants are a requirement. Pretty much your all-American holiday. Sometimes we have fireworks."

"In your backyard?"

"Kind of — just have to make sure they're far enough away from the stables."

"Your privilege is showing — you might wanna tuck it back in."

He rolled his eyes before he said: "You should come visit."

"Huh?"

"We're more fun than the Food Network."

"Visit you for Christmas? That's so weird, MC, you're supposed to do family stuff."

"T's boyfriend used to be a chef. I'm just saying, he always makes pie."

"I can't visit you for Christmas."

"Your parents don't talk, right?"

I frowned, confused. "Right."

"So tell them you're with the other, and come eat pie."

"That is so _90210 _of you. They're not gonna care where I am. No scheme needed. I just don't wanna impose on your fam. Like, hey, guys, I've known your bro for like a month, and I came to lunch that one time so thought I'd crash in your pool house for the holidays."

"It's an indoor pool — there's no pool house."

"See, not even somewhere for me to sleep."

"What's wrong with my bed? It's much nicer than the ones here."

"Are you kidding me?" I punched his arm with less force than I would have used if we were in private.

He shrugged, the picture of innocent nonchalance.

"You know, your sister told me where the condoms are stashed in your house."

"What?"

"Esme, I was getting a soda and she's all like, 'oh hey Bella, nice to meet you, if you feel like banging my pseudo-son on his superhero sheets there're Trojans in the upstairs bathrooms.'"

"Oh, yeah, under the sink — that's where they stash them. She did _not _say that though." He tugged a strand of my hair. "I had baseball sheets, not Batman."

I slapped his hand away. "That's still seriously weird."

"Ignore it, Esme and Alice both think they're still cool. It's a devastating mental illness that sometimes afflicts the over-thirties."

"It doesn't drive you crazy?"

He shrugged easily. "Sure, everyone's parents drive them crazy."

Apparently I didn't look like I was paying Pretty Boy the attention he deserved because suddenly he clicked his fingers in front of my face. "Hey, Duckling! You're spacey today."

I glared. "_Rude_."

He rolled his eyes, ignoring my ire, and nudged his plate towards me, half of his danish still intact despite his restless fingers. "You wanna finish mine?" he asked. "I want more coffee."

"Free danish!"

"The first one was free too, I bought it."

"Acquired danish!"

Pretty Boy rolled his eyes at me again and slid out of the booth, heading to the counter. I made great headway in devoring the remains of his danish while he ordered — most of it was gone by the time he came back with a black coffee, and another latte for me.

I pulled a small-fistful of sugar packets from the bowl by the window and passed them over to him without asking. "Ugh, I don't wanna go to class tomorrow. I haven't done, like, half the reading I was supposed to."

"Don't front — the only thing you've read this week is the label on your beer." Pretty Boy lined up the paper packets and tore the tops off four in one go before dumping them into his cup.

"Fine. I haven't done _any _of the reading I was supposed to."

"Bad Bella."

"Well, _some people_ are very distracting, MC."

His fingertips were playing with mine on the table. "What're you reading? Let's go rent the movie versions."

"How do you know there are movies?"

"It's Freshman English Lit — if they assign you a book that hasn't been made into a movie or a mini-series ninety percent of the class would flunk the final."

"Fine, finish your battery acid —" I nodded to his coffee. "— we have an afternoon of Mr. Darcy ahead of us."

"Fine," he mimicked, "but you're in charge of snacks."

* * *

_AN: I know, I suck, this is why I don't have an update schedule. Thank you so much for all your support, I love hearing from you guys! This whole thing is so much more fun sharing it with you all._


	12. Chapter 12

His hands were inside my shirt and his mouth on mine before we even got through the door. It fell back into place behind us, locking with an audible click as we stumbled through. Pretty Boy was wasting no time.

"I hate Jane Austen," I mumbled against his mouth.

"You hate Jane Austen? I had to watch you orally pleasure your pen for the last ninety minutes."

"Hmm," I hummed against his mouth as he walked me backwards. "I was chewing. I get fidgety when I'm bored. I hate Jane Aust—" Mid-complaint my heel hit the edge of the mattress on the floor that he called a bed and I went flying backwards, pulling Pretty Boy down on top of me as I grasped desperately at his shirt for balance. "_Fuck_!"

His hands found purchase on the sheets either side of my head and he popped up in an impressively quick push-up. "Still alive down there?"

"Fuck, no." I groaned. "Your bone-y elbow broke a rib. Say your goodbyes now before I bleed out from my massive internal injuries."

He took his hand and pressed lightly at the bottom of my ribcage. "Does it hurt here?"

I pouted. "No."

He lifted his hand a little higher. "Here?"

I squinted at him, my lips curled in a suspicious smile. "No."

Pretty Boy grabbed my boob through my t-shirt and cocked his brow in faux-innocence. "How 'bout here?"

I swatted at him. "No dice."

Pretty Boy shrugged and sat up straight. "Shame, I was going to kiss it better."

"Oh, well in that case..." I pulled him closer as both his hands sneaked up the inside of my shirt, dragging the fabric higher and higher until we had to separate to get it over my face and stuck on my pony tail. Goddamn hair elastics.

His face pressed into my collarbone muffling his voice. "Why don't you have a front-clasp bra? Make my life easier."

I lay back into the mattress, not bothering to help him. I drummed the palms of my hands aimlessly on the sheets either side of me as I answered, "I don't know anyone with a clasp in front. This isn't a Harlequin Romance. I don't shop in lingerie boutiques; Gap didn't do front clasp."

"The Gap make bras?"

"Not exciting ones."

"Clearly," he muttered.

Pretty Boy's hand wiggled between my back and the sheets, twisting the little metal catches from each other... which was pretty impressive, cause I sucked at doing that one handed.

"I'm going to stop talking now."

"Clever boy," I gasped. I nearly smacked Pretty Boy in the face as I tried to wiggle my arms out of said boring, restrictive, no-fun-at-all bra.

I was laughing and when his lips pressed against my newly exposed breast they were curled in this devastating, heart-stopping smile that felt almost as good as the flat of his tongue dragging across my nipple. Almost.

"_Oh_." I rocked my head back against the sheets. "Hey, _hey _—" His mouth was traveling down my ribcage, making the muscles in my stomach jump. I tugged his hair and his face popped up in front of mine — flushed cheeks, pink lips, dark eyes, and one cocked eyebrow.

I replied to his unspoken question in one short breath: "Take off your shirt."

* * *

My life had become coffee, and topless make outs, and not enough studying. It had been exciting, and hot, and most of all _fun_. Pretty Boy was fun.

But as the days went on and I spent more and more of my time rolling around in one or the other of our beds with not much in the way of clothes, I was entering new realms of terror. This was like if the Barefoot Contessa went to the fridge and there was no butter. This was _scary_. One of those things you never really thought would happen.

So far, I had kept my panties firmly on, and now? Not so firm.

I thought being naked in front of someone was supposed to be fun — that's why people did it right? — but mostly I felt like I was going to throw up and if I was lucky it would be in my mouth and not his.

My wafer-thin tank top was still on with my bra undone beneath it but my panties were dangerously close to being dragged down my legs. Not that I was complaining about that fact _exactly_... just it could be dark, and maybe under a gigantic duvet where I would be undetectable from layers of cotton and down.

Pretty Boy was smart enough to find his way around down there without a map and a flashlight. I was sure there were plenty of girls who could attest to that.

I knew I was a melodramatic mess, but I had spent most of my life used to being a non-entity. Not in a cruel, hurtful way. My parents weren't neglectful. The kids at school didn't hate me. I just didn't really register anywhere important on the radar — I was out at the edge of the circles no one was aiming for.

My mom had her dreams. My dad had his life settled before I came around. The kids at school probably tried the most, but we never clicked.

My existence didn't rock anybody's world, anyway. That was alright though. I was sarcastic and funny. People liked me even if we weren't besties. It was alright.

Then this ridiculous, fantastical, absurd boy walked into my life and he wouldn't leave. Not that I wanted him to. I just wasn't sure how he was supposed to fit. I didn't know how to make space for people in my life and I certainly didn't know how to be cosy, and comfy, and _naked _with them.

And apparently — he wanted to be naked with me.

That was just... terrifying. It seemed dangerous to let any one have that much of me. That was the kind of thing people could hurt you with. And, as cute and knowledgeable about girls as he was, Pretty Boy had the potential for mountains of hurt. He could piss it down all over me and then I wouldn't just be back at square one...

I wouldn't just be back at my dad's with a high school full of acquaintances and fake polite smiles. I wouldn't be drinking and partying and still managing to spend almost all of my time alone without really knowing why I couldn't like these perfectly nice people around me, or really trust myself with the ones I did like, without knowing why I moved to college and found myself with a roommate who had no desire to know me, and teachers who thought I was adequate enough to leave alone, but not bright enough to take interest in.

I wouldn't be back in exactly the same place I had always been.

I would be devastated.

It would be worse than any abandonment issues any shrink could try and pin on my parents for not realizing they needed to make space for me. That I wasn't a tiny adult who could get on with their life and share a coffee in the morning across the kitchen table, and never talk about anything that mattered.

It wouldn't be like that. It would be infinitely worse.

I would actually have to feel things, and care about someone, and it was entirely possible that he could destroy me. And, I really didn't want to be destroyed, especially not by him.

I hooked my fingers in the sides of my panties and held them securely, a little too high so the elastic cut into the inside creases of my thighs. It hurt a little. It would hurt so much more though if he whipped them off and tomorrow (or in two weeks, or six months, or twenty years) he was bored with me.

I didn't let just any guy under my bra, let alone in my pants.

I told him as much: "I don't let just anyone in my pants, MC."

Instead of making some obnoxious retort back, he just traced patterns on my arms with his fingertips. His voice sounded much too sincere when he asked: "Who have you let in?"

I could see that there was some kind of backwards emotional entendre in his words, like I seriously needed mind-fucked right then, but even taking into account how emotionally retarded I could be didn't make much difference — didn't make any difference — to my answer. Still, I wasn't going to say things out loud.

I wasn't looking at him when I replied; I was looking at his hands on my arms, and how he was just a little more tan than I was.

I repeated: "Not just anyone."

"I'm not just anyone," he sounded sure. He took both hands and brushed all the stray strands of hair off my forehead, balanced above me on his elbows. I felt exposed with nothing but his hands framing my face.

I huffed out a small, fake laugh on a short, sharp breath, and joked: "It's a highly sought after ticket — feel honored."

My fingers were still crooked around my panties — holding them up. It left us in an awkward position. Me lying straight with my arms stretched downwards. Pretty Boy between my legs but arms to either side of me.

I swallowed hard. He sat up and gracefully swung himself over one of my legs so that he was facing the same way as me, propped up against the headboard. I stayed locked in my position for a moment before I scrambled to sit up, still facing away from him. My bra was still loose, hanging around my ribs under the thin tee.

He still didn't say anything, but his arms knotted across my chest, over my arms, crushing me back into him in an almighty bear hug. His chin rested on my shoulder, and I didn't bother to struggle. It was a nice type of suffocation.

He squeezed me tight once more and belatedly replied: "I bet it's totally worth the price of admission."

I could feel myself laughing. I let my head fall back, cushioned by his shoulder. I turned to look up, stretching to press a quick kiss to his jaw. "You're such a loser."

"Yeah, sure, you started the metaphor, Little Miss Water Park."

"Oh, gross! Seriously, MC. That's disgusting." I was cracking up; I curled into myself trying to breathe through my laughter. He wasn't even that funny but the whole thing had me strung-up tight.

"Hey, you name another ticketed attraction that's wet."

"_Ohh_, I hate you. I hate you so much." I was still laughing; my face had turned pink, and bright.

"You keep saying that and one day I'm gonna believe you."

I finally quieted myself and turned in his arms to smile against his mouth. "I don't hate you."

"I know." He grinned.

I could feel the curve of his lips as he closed the scant distance between us. He touched my face as we pulled apart. "I'm not seeing anyone else."

My heart felt like it might burst. "Yeah — when would you have time, Clingy?"

He flicked my forehead with his finger and thumb. I scrunched up my nose in response, narrowing my eyes at him.

"I won't, is what I mean," he said.

I felt like my lungs were being squished out of the way by my heart. He was my Cindy Lou Who and my rapidly inflating heart felt like it was climbing up into my throat to find room inside of me. He cared about me. I was not on the fringe of Pretty Boy's radar. I was somewhere near the middle. Maybe just shy of the Bull's Eye? I was somewhere I had never expected to be.

I was still terrified, but it was a whole lot less scary than it was on the outskirts.

He gave me the eyebrow, waiting expectantly.

"Me neither." I bit my lip, trying to hide the tight, expanding feeling threatening to spill out of me.

He kissed me again and before I could say anymore he had lifted me off his lap and my back was hitting the mattress again. Considering we were squished together back in my twin bed it was an impressive feat.

My insides were flip-flopping all over the place again. They were Nemo if he took another wrong turn and ended up on dry land. I felt like I had a thousand upset, out-of-place Nemos flip-flopping in my gut. Still, disgustingly, it was almost a good feeling.

"You know, it's totally hot that you could do that without falling off the bed," I laughed, as he leaned over me.

His eyes were that dusky, aquarium green again when he told me: "Take off your bra."

I blinked once and then fought to get my arms through the loops while still wearing my tank. I pulled the untangled bra through the top between my boobs and threw it on the floor next to the bed.

"Happy?"

His eyes lightened the tiniest bit then. Beer bottle green when light breaks through and it's a thousand different shades. "Ecstatic. You?"

I shrugged beneath him, trying not to smile... or hyperventilate. "I'm alright, I guess."

His head bowed as he laughed. "I am _so _not the brat here," he defended, as his fingers shrugged my panties to my knees, to my ankles, to the floor under my bed.

"I don't know," I gasped quietly, "I think you're just rubbing off on me."

* * *

The 'A' key on my laptop was sticking, and I was unreasonably aggravated at the horror of it all considering I regularly ate grilled cheese over the keyboard. A week old toasted bread crumb wanted me to fail at life! Or, at least at college. I was outraged.

I could never pull the keys off to clean under them properly either. I always broke the little clip thingies and ended up with a key that sort of slid around and body-checked the one next to it. My last three computers could all attest to this fact.

Instead, I bashed at it angrily with my pointer finger — trying to crush the crumb into submission. It kind of worked, especially if you ignored how disgusting all the old food hanging around in there really was. I was especially good at avoiding anything I didn't particularly want to think about, so this was easy — unless it was Pretty Boy. I was particularly awful at not thinking about him. Or, he was really, really good at invading my thoughts when I was trying to be a decent student and actually write my final paper for class.

Boys were bad. They were a terrible, bad thing. You could go along in life without ever really paying them much attention. Boys were sweaty and loud and they fake honked your boobs when you turned fourteen and started wearing a bra. They weren't anything special. Then some gorgeous, obnoxious, terrible smart-ass of a boy shows up and all you want is more and more and more of him.

Who wants to be writing a final paper for English Lit when they could be having sex? Stupid people, that's who. People like me who decided it probably wasn't worth flunking out of college for and now found myself hammering the grubby, disgusting 'A' key on my piece of shit laptop like a lunatic rather than lying on top of the super hottie I was almost, kind of, I guess dating. Since we weren't dating anyone else...

My hormones needed a time out. Seriously.

I looked up from battering my poor, decrepit laptop. The room was empty. Jenna had shown up earlier like she did every now and then, but she'd hightailed it pretty quickly. Pretty Boy was test-taking. I was surprised at how quiet it was without him, I thought I was the loud one. Maybe I was just loud when he was around.

I slammed the lid shut on my computer and tossed it onto the other side of my bed where it bounced daintily but — surprisingly — didn't fall off. I couldn't be bothered to shut it down or unplug it, so I left it as it was, pulled on a pair of flip flops even though it was about three degrees outside, and left the confines of my dorm room.

My room meant studying, and English Lit papers, and books I wasn't really interested in reading. The outside world had other people, and coffee, and cheese doodles. I was willing to trade off cold feet for cheese doodles any day.

When I got outside I heard a familiar call, one that hadn't been present in my life for a couple of weeks. I hadn't missed it. "Yo! Arizona!"

Mike was in my parking lot for some unforeseen reason. He spent a ridiculous amount of time hanging around our parking lot considering he lived off campus. I was beginning to wonder if he secretly slept in one of the crazy, broke down cars that never seemed to move from the spaces they were stashed in on the first day of the semester... my car could easily have been mistaken for one of them though so I hoped not.

The last thing I needed on a desperate hangover coffee run was to crawl into my car and find Mike hanging out in the backseat with a cooler and a ratty blanket.

I stopped and waved as he sprinted over dramatically. "Hey, Mike."

"Swan! Where you been at? We haven't seen you in forever. You've been all up in that preppy kid, Edward."

"You think MC's preppy?" I couldn't stop myself asking.

"He's always wearing shirts and stuff."

"What? The boy lives in hoodies. Did you see him in a button-up like one time, Mike?"

"Whatever, Swan. I missed you! You're coming to my party, right?"

Along with all the other parties Mike threw, he was also planning an end of semester slash Christmas slash fuck yeah winter break party. If I'd been spending the holiday with Renee I would have had to catch a flight out before the party... now that I was just driving to Charlie's my attendance was a little more likely.

I didn't have the patience to have a conversation with Mike about the possibility of me not attending: "Sure, I'm gonna try."

"Okay, cool. You better!"

"Totally. I gotta go, I'll see you."

"Yeah, catch you later, Arizona!"

I started walking toward the main part of campus. It was close and there would be vending machines there full of tasty treats to take my mind off the disaster my study session had turned into.

I got a bag of Cheetos and a Mountain Dew and seriously regretted my choice in footwear. Not only was it cold, my toenail polish was chipped. It was a bad look. I kicked up my pace to a nice speed walk to try and warm up and eventually found myself outside the lecture hall that currently contained Edward. His pretty self was sitting inside writing about math. I was really fucking glad I wasn't writing about math.

It was so lame. I lied to myself about getting a snack because I couldn't get him out of my head. I sat on the low wall that ran down the side of the steps up to the imposing brick building and bounced lightly to try and keep away the chill. I wasn't even wearing a coat, just a thick wool cardigan. I was an idiot.

I finished my snacks and folded the chip packet neatly so I could slot it through the ring pull hole in my soda can before I scrunched it in my fist.

I stretched. I kicked the bricks behind my heels. I pitched the crumpled can across the path into a trash can... and missed. I scrambled over to fix my terrible aim. I picked off the nail polish from my cuticles. I pulled my split ends. I worried my lip. I pulled at the cuffs of my cardigan. I jumped up and down on the spot.

I sat and waited and finally in a quiet, disgruntled stampede of students Pretty Boy walked out through the giant, imposing doorway. He walked over to me, curled one side of my cardigan in each hand, and kissed me.

His fingers had been inside of me, but it was the first time he'd ever kissed me in front of someone, anyone.

"What's X equal to?"

"Treasure," he grinned against my mouth.

I grinned back. "Wanna go find it?"

* * *

_AN: Oh, if you're wondering where that second plot point is... next chapter. Cross my heart; it's already written._


	13. Chapter 13

Pretty Boy walked me backwards down the last few steps. It was a valiant effort until I lost a flip flop.

"Ow. Cold!"

"Huh?"

I swatted at him and tried to hook my toes back through my horribly inappropriate footwear. It involved hopping while he tried to hold me upright.

"You're wearing flip flops?"

"They're waterproof! I didn't want my flats to get all wet and gross."

"But your feet can get wet and gross?"

"They're waterproof, too."

I smiled up at him. I felt like a happy little boat bobbing on the bright blue sea or some other cheerful thing that cynical people don't usually like. One of my hands was gripping Edward's wrist tucked up inside the sleeve of his shirt. I was cheerfully drunk on being able to touch him.

"Aren't you supposed to be studying?"

"If I don't know it by now I'll never know it."

"Great logic, Duckling." The corner of his mouth was carefully trying to avoid from turning up.

I couldn't help but stop walking again to kiss him. We broke apart but stayed almost nose to nose in the middle of the sidewalk with my toes quickly freezing. "I feel like I'm going crazy."

Pretty Boy twisted up his fingers in the ends of my hair to kiss me one last time — quick and hard — he didn't even pull out a quip about my almost certain insanity. "Let's go home."

My breathing was all lopsided and shallow as I reluctantly uncurled my fingers from his collar. "Home," I agreed.

* * *

I was flat on my back, Pretty Boy framed in between my legs. He was still wearing jeans, but no shirt, no belt, no shoes or socks. I was wearing panties — always a good start, but in my case it was also the middle and the end. All my other clothes were chilling somewhere on Pretty Boy's bedroom floor.

This was definitely new territory. The half-naked boy with his fingers hooked in the sides of my panties on top of almost-naked me, more so than his room. We had hung out in his room before. And I'd been almost naked before, but not totally, and not both of us at the same time. It was a world of new.

I think I squeaked when he started edging the panties down over my ass. I had been making a lot of embarrassing noises. What was one more?

He made this amused sound that wasn't quite a laugh and I felt better, it felt familiar. It would have been totally fine except that he looked up at me when he started on his jeans, and the second his eyes hit mine I blurted out, against my own will, _completely _against my own will, "I haven't — I haven't before —"

His fingers froze in place over his zipper and the sentence hung awkwardly between us.

I scrunched up my face, covering it with both hands as I let my head fall back. I was an idiot. He was going to stop. He'd think I was a freak.

I peeked down and saw expressions flickering across Edward's face faster than I had thought possible. Confusion. Disbelief. Frustration. Guilt. All the good stuff. I mean we'd had the 'not just anyone' talk but to him 'not just anyone' probably didn't mean 'no one'.

I let my head thump back down on the pillow. He leaned up over me, and caught my wrists before my hands could cover my painfully red face again. Hesitantly, I opened my eyes. He was really close, and my panties were still hanging around my knees.

His expression was softer now. The dim orangey light made his eyes sparkle in this amazing way.

"Hey." He still had my wrists wrapped delicately in his long fingers. "I'll take really good care of you. If you want to."

I swallowed to try and ease the pressure in my chest. I wanted to say no. I wanted to be the world's biggest bitch to him so that he'd never speak to me again. I wanted to curl up in the fetal position and not speak to anyone for a week.

I didn't feel safe. I felt like I might throw up because I was so terrified. An emotional cripple losing their virginity to someone they actually cared about — surely that was a horrible idea?

Instead of vomiting all over the beautiful, half-naked boy pressing me into the mattress, I said: "You're always really nice to me."

"Yeah, well, I —"

"What?" I whispered urgently.

"I like you, Bella... I'm kinda crazy about you. Don't milk it though, you gotta let me have a _little _dignity."

I held my thumb and pointer finger close together between us. "A little."

He snapped at my finger with his perfect teeth.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, leaning up toward him. "I'm kinda crazy about you, too."

His answering smile made that stutter-y, swollen pulse inside me feel like it had stopped altogether. "Don't worry, I won't tell."

"You can tell whoever you want," I mumbled against his lips.

I kissed him then, and tried to shimmy completely out of my panties at the same time. It was wholly unsuccessful, and he laughed into my mouth as he pulled them down off my ankles.

I grabbed him by his shoulders just as he started on his zipper again and tried to joke: "If you stop speaking to me cause I suck, I'm going to tell everyone your dick is tiny. Really tiny." My voice cracked, and it didn't sound so funny.

"Aw, you're no good at lying, Duckling."

I rolled my eyes.

He leaned over me, propping himself up with his elbows. "You won't suck."

"Okay."

"Don't bite me if it hurts."

"Don't hurt me then."

"Your hymen is not my fault. Just... tell me, okay?"

I glared at him, trying not to laugh. "Okay," I agreed. "Take off your pants."

"Yes, ma'am."

He was down to clingy boxers when he kissed me again. Then, in some kind of stealth move, they were gone, too.

My mouth followed his lips as he pulled back.

"You really wanna do this? You don't have to —"

"MC, despite your tendency towards douchiness... you're probably the nicest guy I've ever met. You take care of me. You keep me caffeinated. Plus, I'm eighteen, and I'm into you; like really, really into you, so..."

"You want me to get into you?"

"Oh my God, forget it." I pressed my hand to his face, and pushed him away. "I'm never having sex with you."

He smiled into my palm before he batted it away and kissed me. It wasn't rushed, but it was kind of _urgent_. No one had ever kissed me like that before — like they were desperate for me, but not pushy.

It didn't make much sense. _I_ couldn't make much sense of it, anyway.

It was the kind of kiss that would have made me take off my pants, if I'd still been wearing them.

The dark, stomach-flipping, scary, awesome look in Pretty Boy's eyes made me feel upside down. And, I thought that it probably didn't matter if I liked the boy a whole lot more than he could ever like me, and that sure he might get up afterwards and walk away, but I was okay with that. I was used to people being apathetic to my existence and, for once, I wanted the good bit. The bit that comes before. Not the sex, not _just _the sex, but sort of everything else that goes along with.

I wanted to tell him secrets — silly things that didn't even matter but I still hadn't told anyone else in case they laughed — I wanted him to read my journal, and meet my family. I was kind of ridiculously happy he dropped out of Juilliard even though it was a stupid thing to do.

I wanted to hear him play piano, and violin, and all those other instruments I knew he could probably play.

Most of all, I really wanted to have sex with him.

My mind was too fogged to panic when he turned his attention to the condom packet. Every problem page I'd ever read reminded me that it supposedly hurt less to lose it on top, and I was mentally weighing up being that exposed versus killing the mood with my inevitable shriek of pain.

Vanilla won out, the decision made for me with the feeling of Pretty Boy settling his hips just above mine — the smallest pressure between us. My chest was tight and vanilla suddenly seemed like the most exciting, badass flavor ever.

My mind was back to buzzing a million miles a minute right up until he kissed me and simultaneously thrust smoothly into me. A burst of pain hit partway. I bit his lip. I actually drew blood as he cursed into my mouth and held rigidly still inside me.

"Fuck —" he cursed, lowly.

"Jesus fuck that hurt," I said into his bloody lip.

His expression was pained, the little dip between his lip and his chin smeared with blood. "You okay now?"

"I cut your lip."

He held himself up with one arm, wiping his mouth with the back of his free hand.

It didn't hurt anymore but I felt wriggly, like if I could shift my hips to the right angle the pressure inside me would give way. I pressed my hands behind my back on the mattress, pushing myself up to kiss him again, softly. My lips avoided his swollen lower lip as much as I could.

It was going to bruise.

I shifted my hips again involuntarily, and his pressed back against me and then began to withdraw. The friction made me hold my breath. When he entered again, quicker this time, the air flew out of me in a short, sharp gasp.

It wasn't like I'd expected. It reminded me a little of the feeling you get when you can't stop prodding a particularly bad bruise — a strange mixture of pleasure and discomfort.

It was good. It was better than I'd expected and kind of underwhelming at the same time. My pulse felt like it might thud right out of my body. There was potential though.

I wanted to do it again before it was even over.

The worst part of losing my virginity — I cried afterwards.

Not regret-filled there-are-nudes-of-me-on-Facebook style sobbing, but weepy eyes and a sniffle I tried — and failed — to hide from Pretty Boy. After all, how much can you actually hide from someone when you're pressed together naked? Also, being glued together by bodily fluids? Only nice for like five minutes before you cool down and your whole being feels sticky and gross.

I was happy, and tired, and totally not okay with him disappearing after the deed like I thought I'd be.

It was horrifying. I was sure Pretty Boy would think I was a crier, and I really wasn't. I never cried, and he kept catching me doing it. I swore if the story of how I cried after I lost my virginity ever came out I'd kill him, or tell everyone it was because he was so terrible.

His brow furrowed. "Are you crying?"

"No. I think I'm allergic to you."

His thumb wiped the tears from the little crescents under my eyes. "We can ply you with anti-histamine before next time." His hand hovered at my face, brushing my hairline lightly. He was on his side, and I was on my back. He could see my ribcage fluttering up and down under my skin. "Are you okay?"

"I feel like a loser. I don't even know why I'm crying."

He pulled me up so that I was mostly on top of him, buoyed by his breathing — he was warm, and so much bigger than me. My hair fanned out everywhere in a damp, sweaty mess that covered my back and fell down around our faces.

"You're so weird," he mumbled into my hair.

"I know!" I rested my cheek just under his collarbone and he wrapped an arm up around my shoulders, his hand holding the back of my head lightly, fingers twined through my hair nest. "Bet girls don't usually cry when they sleep with you."

"When have you ever been usual?"

I flicked his nipple in retaliation. When I looked at him again his bottom lip seemed seriously maimed. I probably should have been embarrassed, but for some reason my brain decided it was hysterically funny.

"I can't believe I bit you!"

"I can't believe you bit me. You need to get a rubber gum-shield before my dick goes near your mouth."

"It's gonna take a lot of free coffee to put me in that good a mood."

"You think the 'Bucks do bulk orders?"

I kissed him then. He was so pretty, and happy, and glow-y. I know that makes him sounds like a preggo woman, but... seriously, I don't think I've ever liked someone as much as I liked Edward in that moment.

I liked him enough to use his real name.

He was pinch-me cute. Y'know, except for the being stuck to me with cold sweat part.

"You're okay though, right?" he mumbled into my hair. "You're not like psychologically damaged..."

"By your penis?" I rolled my eyes even though I was tucked up into his chest and no one could see. "No."

"Good, good."

"MC?"

"Yeah?"

"Let's be pirates. I like treasure hunting."

* * *

_AN: So... I'm horrible at keeping to a schedule. Sorry! We've got a couple more chapters to go, but, I will miss this story hardcore so for December I'm going to do an advent calendar of sorts. Just PM me with a little prompt for our duo and I'll write something. Can't promise how long they'll be, but I'll do 25 of 'em. If you're interested of course! Take care, lovelies._


	14. Chapter 14

When I woke up to a bed full of Pretty Boy the next morning I hurt. And, it wasn't just the vagina like I expected. I hurt all over. Like I'd done some kind of particularly brutal boot camp and pulled muscles I had never used before.

I pulled myself up, running a hand through my hair to try and tame the mane, and looked over at him. Damn he was cute. The boy was face down in the mattress twisted into what had to be a totally uncomfortable position. His eyelashes fluttered all over the place.

His mouth was an absolute disaster zone.

All around his bottom lip was swollen and red. It was beginning to heal over where I split it, but honestly it looked like someone had given him a swift right hook to the jaw. It would've been inappropriately hot if I didn't know how it actually happened. Actually, it was still pretty hot.

"Bella?" his voice was muffled by a pillow.

I brushed his hair back with my palm so I could see his eyes better, even if they were tightly closed. "Uh huh?"

"Oh good, you didn't go foraging for carbs without me."

"I don't forage. Everyone eats breakfast, MC."

He mumbled: "Sure, sure."

A hand groped around in the air to try and find me. Eventually he caught my elbow and tugged me down beside him. I let myself be dragged up tight against his side my chin resting by his shoulder.

"MC, you need to let go."

He harrumphed into his pillow and kept hold of me.

"_Edward_, I need to pee. Unless you're into that give me my arm back!"

"Fine." He rolled over onto his back, one arm flung across his eyes. He peeked out from under it at me.

I grinned. "You look like someone kicked your ass."

He grinned back at me. "You routinely kick my ass. It was only a matter of time before it got physical."

I laughed before I could stop myself. "Please sing Olivia Newton-John to me. It would be the hottest moment of my life. My _existence_."

"You can't beat me _and _mock me, Duckling."

"Not even if there's sex involved?"

He touched his hand to his swollen mouth and grimaced a little.

I leaned over him and pressed my closed mouth very gently against the bloodied area before jumping up. That was a feat to behold considering my legs had gone on strike.

"I'll be right back. I won't even stop to forage, promise."

I pulled on my pants, sans panties, one of his t-shirts and grabbed the bottle of mouthwash from Pretty Boy's sink on my way out the door. I padded barefoot down the corridor towards the bathrooms hoping I wouldn't bump into anyone I knew.

Lucky for me the place was abandoned. It was much too early for anyone but the walk-of-shamers to be out and about. In addition to peeing I took the chance to splash cold water on my face, cleaned up a little down below, and freshened up my breath.

It wasn't until I got back to Pretty Boy's door that I realized I didn't have the key, and the person who did have the key was face down on a mattress on the floor inside semi-conscious. I really didn't want to shout through to him. The minute that started then I would have people peering out of their doors trying to figure out what was going on. And, I couldn't call him... my phone was inside in one of my pants pockets.

I didn't even have my own room key, and the chance of Jenna being there to let me in was zero. Maybe zero point one.

This was a disaster.

Trying to avoid being conspicuous I knocked lightly. There was no reply.

I knocked again, a little louder.

I called through the door: "Edward?"

A door at the end of the corridor started to open.

I banged on the door. More doors started to creak open.

"MC! Open the fucking door right now!"

The door swung open while I was still pounding on it. Glaring occasionally over my shoulder at the nosy fuckers who had come to see me in all my rat nest hair glory.

He had managed to put on a pair of boxers but that was about it. Edward was rumpled. Dark-eyed and mussed up. His hair kinda looked like a lion's mane.

"Duckling? What the fuck are you doing out here?"

The spectators were shamelessly taking in our little exchange. I could hear the tip-tap of fingers on iPhone touchscreens. Probably letting their friends know that the awful rumors were true and Edward Masen-Cullen was not up for grabs. Or, they'd have to work a little harder than thought.

Pretty Boy was taking up the whole doorway. I swatted at his arms pushing past him. "I need my panties, _God_, MC."

There was some snickering from behind me and I'm pretty sure a couple of disappointed faces. The whole dorm was co-ed and some of Pretty Boy's biggest fans were on the same floor as him.

He was still standing by the door, a little dumbstruck, boy was that boy bad in the morning, when I called from inside: "Put on some pants, it's carb time!"

* * *

My hand gripped at the cuff of his hoody. His fingers slipped up inside the back of my shirt. His arm wrapped around me. My ribs pressed up against him. I was on some kind of strange, clingy leash that made me want to be right up next to Pretty Boy at all times. Even while walking. He didn't seem to be complaining.

The weather had turned wintery but I knew he would roll his eyes at me if I pretended I was just cold.

Pretty Boy's cell phone started shrieking - interrupting our post-coital winter wonderland. He answered it with the hand that wasn't currently wrapped so far around my waist it was resting inside the front pocket of my hoody.

"Lissy, I can't hear you. What the fuck is that?"

"Why are you on a train?"

"Huh?"

"I'm hanging up now, call me when the apocalypse isn't happening."

He stashed his cell and turned his face to look down at me. "I heard the words 'Christmas train'. I have no idea."

"Maybe you should call someone - check she's okay?"

"Oh yeah, no, she'll be fine. She's insane. But she's alright. Jasper's her full time carer."

I smacked his side. "That's a really shitty thing to say."

"And you're so full of decorum and political correctness and tact and grace."

"I should have known. TV warned me that you would be an asshole after I let you in my pants."

He grinned. "Come on, I'll give you a piggy back to the diner. Carry you over all these icy puddles, like a gentleman."

I glared. "Can't. My legs won't open that far anymore."

He grinned wider before he started laughing. Then, before I could even bitch him out, Pretty Boy had thrown me over his shoulder in a Fireman's lift and continued walking.

"MC! Fuck! Be careful with me - I'm all battered and bruised because of you!"

He kept laughing as I half-heartedly flailed on him and finally slid me down his body so that my toes could touch the ground, and finally, finally I was solidly on the sidewalk. His lips chased mine downwards until he could kiss me. Softly. His hands resting either side of my ribs.

It was quiet and cold - our breath visible in the air between us. I didn't know what to say.

"Still your favorite?" I asked very quietly, without pulling away.

He nodded so our foreheads almost touched. "Still my favourite."

"Good. Me too, with you."

One of his hands came up between us to brush away my overgrown bangs, resting lightly on my temple. "Mmm, I wish we didn't have to go tomorrow."

"Couldn't we just cancel Christmas this year?"

He kissed me again, quickly, his injured lip a little rough against mine. "Come on, Grinch. Pancakes await you."

"What about their wafflely friends?"

"Also graciously expecting their death at your teeth. I pre-warned them." He tapped his lower lip.

"Don't worry," I told him as we started off again, "waffles don't get in my pants, just my belly."

* * *

While Pretty Boy was fetching me yet another coffee, Jess rang to remind me that we had a study date with 'the gang' in the library today. I had forgotten. Time seemed fuzzy - pulled too tight and frayed in other places.

Most of us had one last educational hurdle to leap through that afternoon before Mike's epic party in the evening and a swift departure the next morning, hopefully sans hangover. If I had been staying with Renee then I would have had to leave straight after my test.

A steaming cup of coffee was placed in front of me.

"MC, we're supposed to be in the library."

"Fuck 'em."

"You're so charming. I need to study."

"We can study at home."

"No we can't - you'll take off my clothes, or your clothes, and then I'll flunk out."

"You know if you studied at any other time of the year we wouldn't have this problem."

"Hindsight and all that jazz," I agreed.

When we finally found ourselves in the library everyone had already gathered upstairs. The seventh floor of the library was totally dead.

There were only six or seven of us up there in the wastelands of the theatre, film, and music collections. Pretty Boy was in the right place, the rest of us were just avoiding the librarians policing the busier English Lit floors downstairs.

We made a show of trying to be quiet, but there wasn't much effort behind it. In the land of librarian law-enforcers we would have definitely been busted. Up on seventh the worst that happened was a dirty look from a senior who was absolutely, without a doubt, a theatre major.

No one wore a neckerchief quite like a theatre major.

A few hours later Pretty Boy looked absorbed in the books around him. One had blank sheet music that he was scribbling notes into, he had a plain college ruled book and about a million reference texts around him.

He was totally into it.

I had an empty notebook, a pile of magazines, and a handful of relevant books. Less into it.

We were on our own for a moment. Everyone else trawling the stacks in search of a magical book that might actually help them pass this semester.

"You love this stuff, why'd you drop out of Juilliard? Isn't it like impossible to get into?"

Pretty Boy answered without looking up: "Hardly."

"Okay, but it's a good school."

"So's this one." He shrugged.

"Music isn't exactly its speciality."

"I told you," he mumbled around the end of his pen, "I wanted to come home."

"Okay, sure, except you're never there. You're always here. I know because you spend the majority of your time annoying me."

"I —" he stopped, put down his pen, and looked up at me. "I had an okay time in high school."

I rolled my eyes. "You were popular. Go figure."

"Sure, I guess."

"And?"

"And everyone has always made a big deal about the music thing. I know I'm good; I'm not trying to be like — whatever. I nearly signed with this label that's linked to the one T works for."

"That's so cool."

"But I ended up going to New York instead, and, I don't know, it's what I've always been all about. I was sick of it, y'know? I just wanted something else for awhile. You haven't even heard me play."

"So... different."

"Or at least not all-consuming."

"You gonna be a rock star when you graduate?"

"Nah — I think they wanted me to be in some lame boy band, anyway."

"Do boy bands even still exist? What is this, 1992?"

"Shut up, Duckling. This is why I don't tell anyone."

"So, no one knows you were almost poster-fodder for twelve-year-old girls everywhere?"

"_You_ know."

"You could have had a private jet with your face on it."

"Something to aspire to in life."

"You know your life is fucking bizarre, right?"

"You mean no one ever stopped you in the street when you were fifteen and asked if you wanted to be a supermodel?"

"Oh sure, I spent my senior year in Tokyo eating sashimi and doing photo shoots with talking vegetables and giant penguins."

Pretty Boy flicked a pen cap at me, and turned back to his books.

I looked down to mine, then to my watch, then back to the books. Three hours until I was royally screwed.

* * *

The clock ticked — echoing in my brain like a cheesy, ominous movie — before I realized I was resting my head on the same arm that currently had my watch strapped to it.

My pen had already burst from chewing on the end of it. I looked like a dalmatian, or a frostbite victim, except one hundred percent less composed. Finals were quickly corroding any remaining will to live I had left.

I answered every question on the test, but I didn't even want to think about how well I might have done — a pass was a-okay with me. I didn't have a scholarship, or reputation, or huge career dream to hang on to.

Jess was hanging around when I got all my shit packed up. "How'd you do?" she asked nervously.

"I don't think they'll kick me out? You?"

"Ergh, same. I studied, I did, but that was killer, right?"

"Totally."

"Fuck, what'd you do to your hands?"

"Oh, apparently I'm a nervous biter." I laughed at the accuracy of that statement as an image of Pretty Boy's mangled lip popped into my head.

Jess cocked an eyebrow at me.

I explained: "Pen exploded."

"Ah." A devious glint entered her eyes as we started to walk away from the building and our academic doom. "Poor Edward."

"Poor Edward nothing. That boy is a hazard."

"Yeah, to your attention span. Definitely not to the eyes."

"Yes, he's pretty. Yes, he's smart, and thoughtful, and much nicer than me, oh, and an obnoxious brat. We all love Edward," I sing-songed sarcastically.

I caught myself and blinked hard.

"I mean like I love grilled cheese. Like, how everyone loves grilled cheese... not love like —"

"You guys are _cute_. You are a 'you guys' now, right?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess."

"You guess? Has his tongue been in your mouth?"

My lip twitched in a distinctly Pretty Boy way. "Among other things —"

Jess burst out laughing. "You're a 'you guys'."

"It's strange," I confessed.

"It's not strange."

"It's strange for me."

"Why?"

"I dunno. I feel... I really like him."

Jess rolled her eyes impatiently. "Well, that's a good thing, Bella."

"I know. I just, I don't — want him to get sick of me, or something."

"Oh babe, you have no clue. That boy is smitten — fuck knows why because you're super mean to him. He more than 'grilled cheese' loves you."

I tried to absorb what Jess was saying. She didn't know, really. She could just be spouting romantic bullshit for all I knew. But, out of the two of us, sadly Jess was the most likely to accurately read human emotions in practise and maybe she was right. Maybe I came higher on Pretty Boy's list of things to like than grilled cheese. That other word though? I couldn't say it, not even in my head. Not because I didn't like it, didn't want it, didn't think it might be the most magical thing that could ever happen. I just couldn't.

"I need a drink. In lieu of us having fake IDs or booze or actually being twenty-one, wanna grab a coffee?"

"Sure. I think I need the caffeine to recover!"

We walked quickly to the same diner Pretty Boy had taken me for breakfast carbs. It was busy, crowded and noisy, but the caffeine was worth it.

The latte calmed my nerves and Jess seemed to be back to her regular color once she was two thirds into her cappuccino.

She looked up at me across our tiny table. "When are you going to your mom's for Christmas? Are you going to be around for Mike's party?"

"Oh, change of plans. She's fourth honeymooning with Philip or something so I'm going to my dad's again."

"Cool, so you'll be here tonight, right? It's not as far to your dad's?"

"Yeah, it's a few hours drive."

She laughed. "You sound so excited."

I hesitated before I admitted: "Edward asked me home for the holidays."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"That's kinda crazy. I mean, sweet, but... _seriously_?"

"I _know_. I said no. I mean, I should go spend it at home. I don't even know if he checked with his family before he asked me to crash."

Jess raised both eyebrows and took another sip of her cap before she spoke. "His parents must be hella cool if he did."

"He lives with his sisters. It's a whole Party of Five thing."

"Oh. Wow. Sure, of course. So do they go to school here?"

"Nah. They're like eons older than him. He's their baby."

"Oh, cutie." She grinned back.

"Okay, you cannot say anything though. I don't know if he's okay with people knowing, or, whatever. I'm the shittiest not-girlfriend ever. I probably shouldn't have told you, right? Right!"

"No clue. It's cool though, I'd never tell anyone."

"I know. Okay, I'll defo be at Mike's."

"Yay, bring your eye candy. Seven-eleven guy has a mullet right now and it's depressing me."

"I'm going to tell MC that you have a crush — actually, no, you're too cute. He doesn't need to know. Although you should gimme some of your boobs. Equality and all that."

"Shut up, Edward doesn't give a damn about my boobs."

"Oh sure. _I_ have a thing for your boobs, Jess."

"Go home, Bella, before you make me cry over your ridiculously hot boy who ignores my chest.

"Don't wear a bra to Mike's - you'll see."

"Ew, no. Mullet guy will get the wrong idea."

"Bye, Jess!"

"See ya, Bella!"

* * *

Pretty Boy had been packing up his room — barely — for the past few hours. It seemed more like the past few decades.

"You know you can just drive back if you forget something, right?"

"It's Christmas." His brow furrowed as he looked up from the bomb site-esque catastrophe he still had the audacity to call a closet. It was worse than mine and it was a well-documented fact that in Bella 'closet' translated to 'that giant pile of vaguely clean clothes on the floor in the corner.'

"So? It's only like an hour both ways. Scared you might miss Scrabble?"

"You've never played Scrabble with my family. It's a brutal, emasculating sport that I always lose."

"So, something I'd enjoy then?"

"Actually, yes."

"Hah. I can't believe you lose at Scrabble. I can't believe you lose at Scrabble and admit it."

Scrabble was my jam. Monopoly and Clue could go fuck themselves. I always got rid of all my tiles, and ten-point letters on a triple word score were just expected in my world. I have no idea how I got so good — must have been natural talent — cause Charlie and Renee could barely remember how many tiles they were supposed to have, let alone work any kind of strategy.

He threw a crumpled shirt at my head. "I like numbers. I dare you to play poker with me."

"Uh, no — you count cards, I bet my next coffee on it."

His mouth twitched in that way that made me blink hard while my insides jumped around. He didn't argue with me.

"When do you head out?" I asked when I was capable of speech again.

"Tomorrow morning — before you'll be conscious."

"Wake me up."

"Do you promise not to hit me?"

"No."

"Your plan has a glaring flaw."

"You're _leaving_. I'm a delicate flower with abandonment issues."

"You're leaving, too. Anyway, shouldn't I be the one with abandonment issues? You turned down my invite to come with."

"Whatever, your family are fucking terrifying. I can't deal with the hot moms over Christmas dinner."

I threw his shirt back at him. I realized I'd been hugging it to my chest and pulling at loose threads. It was a little too needy, even for me, to be snuggling his used clothing before he was out of the building.

Pretty Boy looked at me, and I looked at him, but neither of us said anything. Things seemed _heavier _since we'd had sex. Not in a bad way, more like a giant amazing goose-down quilt on top of you that you can burrow into when it's cold outside kinda heavy.

Finally I spoke up. "You know I don't actually want to go to my dad's, right? I kind of want to crawl into that stupid duffel bag you have and pop out when you get home and give you a heart attack when you realize I made space for myself by unpacking the sixty thousand shirts you think you'll need."

He shuffle-crawled across the stiff carpet until he was close enough to hook my bangs behind my ear. I was perched on the edge of his mattress on the floor. His fingers hovered on my cheek and my ear.

"I'll miss you, too, Duckling."

"You're not gonna decide I'm too much work when you get back?"

"Nah. Work? Yeah. Too much? Not quite."

I rolled my eyes as he rolled me back into the mattress. "You're the world's shittiest packer," I told his mouth.

"And you're a violent, emotional cripple."

I sort of shrugged underneath him as his mouth moved down my neck. "Not untrue."


	15. Chapter 15

Landmines were exploding in my head and something was stabbing me in the ribcage when I woke up. Closer inspection wasn't possible. My face was too busy being stuck to my pillow with drool. I was sure any kind of sunlight infiltrating my eyes would instantly cause my entire being to shut down. The pain would be too intense.

Someone was stage-whispering: "Duckling. Duckling. Bella!"

I was in some strange game of Duck, Duck, Goose. Clearly I'd already been shot. In the head. The game had gotten brutal since I was a kid.

The stabbing subsided, replaced by a miniature earthquake that rocked my whole upper body and threatened to eject anything currently residing in my stomach. I would have given my kingdom for a Starbucks.

I tried to pull my knees up to my chest, rolling away from the earthquake, mumbling: "I'm not the goose."

My nose started to tickle and a low voice coaxed: "Duckling, I know you're awake. I got you Tylenol. Yummy, yummy, Tylenol."

It felt like there was a shadow across my face so I risked easing open my eyes, a fraction of an inch at a time, until Pretty Boy's blurry visage hovered beside me like a tequila-soaked angel in desperate need of a shower. He reeked of alcohol and my stomach was very, very unhappy at being so close to the smell.

Unfortunately for my stomach the rest of me was pretty damn enthused to see him.

"You smell of bar," I greeted him, my face still pressed into the pillow.

"You smell of vomit, so I'm gonna win this one."

When I pried my eyes open again his face was annoyingly kind. Like he found my horrific situation endearing. He was sitting up next to me now — one hand wrapped around a half-empty bottle of water, the other cupped with two small white pills resting in his palm.

I think the burst of pain that penetrated through my skull was my face rearranging itself into a horrified expression. "Why do I smell of vomit?"

"Why do you think you smell of vomit? The magical vomit fairy?"

"Did you throw up on me?" I groaned. "MC, so help me. That's my favorite shirt."

"I promise all the vomit was your own."

"Ergh. _Erghhhh_."

Hands gently wrapped around my shoulders and turned me over, pulling me up into a sitting position at the same time. It was a pretty skilled maneuver. If I hadn't be in the middle of dying and all I would have been impressed.

One of the hands traced around my cheek lightly. Hovering by my face with just the lightest pressure.

"Duckling, I need to go."

"But I smell of vomit."

"I know, and contrary to what people may say, that's not why I need to go. But, I do, need to go. Take your Tylenol. You'll feel better... in about three days."

He deposited the pills into my clammy hand as I took the bottle of water. Lucky for me the top was already off because that was a feat of dexterity that I wasn't up to on most days, let alone the morning after Mike's epic end of semester Christmas party.

Pretty Boy pushed back my sweaty, frankly disgusting, hair from my face as I swallowed the Tylenol.

"I really need to go, or I'm gonna get stuck in traffic. You okay?"

"I think I might die."

"Bella..."

"MC, seriously, you can go. I'm surprised you're even still here. I'm gross."

"You're not gross."

"I feel so shit, and I'm not going to see you for three weeks. You need to go before I cry. I hate that I'm so stupid and disgusting when you're leaving."

Pretty Boy's face was not impressed. In fact, it was all thunder-cloudy and his voice was sharp: "_Bella_, you feel like shit cause you drank a fuck-load of some guy's Grey Goose last night, threw up all over our cab, and then passed out. I need to go and you're making _me _feel like shit about it."

I felt my bottom lip start to wobble. "I'm sorry. Go, go."

He showed true bravery in the face of... well, me hungover, and pressed a kiss to my closed mouth. Despite my grumpiness. His fingers were weaved all through my hair making blissful little pressure points on my scalp.

"I'll miss you. Vomit-breath and all."

"Why are you okay?"

His mouth scrunched up in that way that made me turn inside out. "I'm not. I think I'm still kinda drunk. There's a cab outside waiting for me, that's why I don't want to get stuck in traffic. I need to get home before I'm as bad as you."

"Not possible."

"Bye, Duckling." His thumb traced just above my eyebrow as he pulled away.

"MC," I called out as he headed for the door.

He looked back, quirking a brow in question.

"Merry Christmas."

His smile was shiny and white as he disappeared into the hall and I flopped face first back into my mattress.

I had to sleep a long time before I was sober enough to sit upright and drive at the same time.

* * *

The house looked more Charlie Brown than Charlie Swan. There was one sad little artificial tree on the kitchen table, about the size of my foot. It had a smattering of unmatched baubles and the most painful, threadbare strand of tinsel I'd ever seen.

Post-holiday blues weren't going to be a problem if this was the extent of the festivities.

I was kind of a sucker for Christmas, but I wasn't in the mood to trim the tree and bake sugar cookies just so that I could sit alone and gorge myself on them. That would be a whole new level of depression.

I turned to my dad, and stated: "You've done so much with the place."

"Well, Bells, I wasn't really expecting company this year, you know that."

"Sure, right."

"And you usually do all this decorating stuff. You know it's no difference to me."

"They decorate the station?"

"Some of the girls on the front desk dressed it up a bit."

"Shoulda got them to stop round here."

"The market will still be open if you wanna deck the halls, kiddo."

I would have rather drowned in egg nog but the chances of the police chief's underage daughter getting hold of the necessary ingredients was slim to none. For that reason, and that reason alone — actually no, decorations, too — I was a little sad I wasn't spending the holiday with my mom.

"I gotta head out. You okay to get unpacked? I haven't had a second to get groceries, but there's some money in the pantry."

"I bet you have beer."

His mustache twitched with a hidden smile. "Well, it's invisible as far as you're concerned."

My dad wasn't a bad guy — he just didn't really get me. I guessed that was okay; most people didn't.

I traipsed up the stairs once he left to dump my belongings. My bedroom was a museum. The sheets were clean but they were the ones I used before I moved out. Everything in the little purple room seemed irrelevant to me now.

The last time I'd stayed here I had been quiet, and agreeable, and virginal. Well, for the most part. I hadn't been that agreeable since Renee remarried halfway through my sophomore year.

I had smiled when she told me about the engagement, dutifully wore the world's most tragically monstrous bridesmaid's dress, and sunnily agreed that of course I'd go live with my dad while she took an eighteen month honeymoon with her dreamboat ball boy.

Philip was okay. He hated that I called him Philip, and I hated that he called me Izzy. He was good for birthday cash, though, and he kept my mom occupied.

I flopped onto the bed and closed my eyes. When I opened them I was almost disappointed to find myself in the same room. I half expected to see Pretty Boy's hoodie slung over the back of my desk chair, or one of his stray sneakers hiding under my bed.

* * *

Christmas Eve showed up before I realized. It's like all the mopey wallowing I'd done, alone, in front of the TV had time-warped me somehow.

I was woken from the fog of blah when my cell phone buzzed with a text.

_Eating cookies and milk in my jammies and you're missing it._

I laughed aloud at the thought of Pretty Boy in footie pajamas.

I texted back:_ All alone and I forgot my jammies, you're missing that._

_My cell receives picture messages you know._

_Shame I have no idea how to send them._

That was a lie. What moron didn't know how to press the little envelope next to a photo and pick out a contact to send it to?

_Google it._

I didn't reply and not much later two more texts arrived in quick succession while Ina was teaching me the best way to include ten sticks of butter into mashed potatoes.

_Can I call you?_

_I'm gonna call you._

The cell buzzed and vibrated against the side table until I answered it.

"Hey."

"Hi."

"This is weird," I admitted.

"What?"

"We've never spoken on the phone before. It's weird. I can't see you."

"_You're_ weird."

"Don't be a dick — it's Christmas Eve, Santa will be watching."

"He'll be getting a hell of a show at your house."

"Nah, I stole your green t-shirt. It's comfy."

"That's cause it's like three thousand years old. Who's the klepto now?"

"We're dating, kind of... that gives me rights to all your clothes."

"We haven't actually been out on a date."

"Yeah, I know, it was weird as soon as I said it."

The most awkward pause that has ever occurred in conversation hung between us until Pretty Boy suggested: "We could just skip dating."

"Huh?"

He continued: "Dating sucks. It's like awkwardly hanging out with someone you probably don't even like on the off chance you might get laid."

"You're such a romantic."

"And you're already getting laid."

"And eloquent, too!"

"Whatever, Duckling. It's true."

"So, what, you're my boyfriend now?"

"Sure."

"On the phone was a really shitty time to have this conversation, you coward."

"It limited the chance of you throwing something at me."

I rolled my eyes and changed the subject. "What's it like at your sister's?"

"Chaos."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, T announced she's pregnant at dinner. She and the boyfriend aren't getting married or anything, but everyone's hyper as fuck."

"That's so cool. That's good, right?"

"Yeah, I mean she's older so just as long as everything goes okay."

"It will. It absolutely will. Hey, you think they'll stop calling you Baby E?"

"I wish." He sighed. "I wish you were here."

"Aw, MC, you feeling all sentimental?"

"Must be all the baby talk, it's affecting my hormones."

"You're so full of shit," I laughed.

"How's it at your dad's?"

"We're just short of a Snoopy."

"Is it that bad, Charlie Brown?"

"It's not bad, it's just..." I let the sentence trail off. I couldn't think of a way to really finish it without sounding like the world's biggest Scrooge.

"Duckling? Hey, Bella, you there?"

"Hang on."

"What, why?"

"I gotta go, but everything's cool. I'll talk to you later."

I hung up the phone and ran upstairs where I started gathering the few things I'd unpacked to squish them all haphazardly into my backpack.

Charlie was still at the station. He would be there all night and most of the next day. When I finally got me and my belongings downstairs I grabbed a post-it from beside the phone and left him a note.

I threw all of my stuff into the backseat and gunned the engine as best I could in the piece of crap I was driving. It rattled, although to be fair that was probably half the engine giving up and half the copious amount of empty Starbucks cups rolling around on the floor.

It would take me a couple of hours to get there but I had my iPod plugged into the cassette deck and my Christmas playlist on full blast as I navigated the frosty roads. There wasn't any real snow, but the closer I got to my destination, the more festive everything began to feel.

It was the feeling people get when they're headed home.

My cell phone rang again and I glanced at the caller ID. It was Pretty Boy. I switched to one hand on the steering wheel and took the call.

"Yo, MC."

"You're suddenly chipper."

"I can't talk right now."

"What's going on?"

"I'm driving and I don't have hands free."

"Stocking up on essentials? We had to do a massive grocery run earlier cause Emmett was terrified we'd run out of Pringles."

"I should hang up."

"Right. Merry Christmas Eve, Duckling."

"Merry Christmas, MC."

* * *

It took twenty minutes longer than I had anticipated to find where I was headed and when I finally pulled up the driveway it was already dark. The house glowed like an elaborate Christmas decoration itself, flooding warm light.

I knocked and shuffled from foot to foot listening to people moving around inside.

The door swung open and Pretty Boy was standing in front of me, his head turned away as he called behind him: "Carlisle, do _not _take that seat! I'm coming back."

He turned to face me, and stopped short. He was wearing a t-shirt that was a little too tight, and sweat pants that I wanted to crawl inside. There was a popcorn garland wrapped around his left hand and from the empty length of string dangling from his fingers he had been snacking on it.

I gave him a little wave with my mittened hand. "Hey."

"Duckling. Did you get lost?"

"Yeah, totally got turned around on my way to the market..."

His mouth split into a smile. "You better come in then. Gimme your keys."

I handed them over. He was barefoot but he shoved on some sneakers by the door and headed out to my car to grab my bag while I stood awkwardly in the foyer. The popcorn garland was still wrapped around his hand.

He brought my backpack inside, slung over one of his shoulders, and tugged my elbow, leading me toward the stairs. We walked past the huge lounge area.

"Looks like Baby E's present arrived early," Jasper laughed when he saw me.

"Fuck off." Pretty Boy tried to look angry as he threw a piece of popcorn from his garland at Jasper's head.

Pretty Boy's hand tugged at mine again, and we headed up the stairs for his room. I could feel the combined power of an entire family smirking at us through the back of my head.

When we got there he threw all my stuff on the floor in his closet, and unwrapped my coat from around me. He was so much taller than me — we were toe-to-toe, my head tilted almost all the way back to see into his eyes. Then, he hugged me, tight, his popcorn garland crumbling between his hand and my back. He smelled like laundry detergent, and Christmas candles, and salt.

He pulled back a little, keeping his hands on me. "You came."

"I got to Charlie's and I just... felt like I was in the wrong place."

Instead of replying Pretty Boy kissed me. I was wrapped up in all of him. My hands in his snug t-shirt. One of his tangled up in my hair, the other pressing between my shoulder blades, holding me a little too close to kiss but doing it anyway. Every part of my feet except my tiptoes came off the ground.

When he finally pulled away he unwrapped the shattered popcorn garland from around his hand and held it out to me. "Want some popcorn?"

I laughed. "Yeah, sure. You got some spare?"

"For you? Always."

He twisted his fingers up in mine and led me back to where the rest of his family were celebrating with popcorn and mince pies and eggnog and Scrabble.

And you can probably guess this part, but, we kind of lived happily ever after.

* * *

_The End_

* * *

_AN: OMG. I can't actually believe it's finished. Firstly, thank you for all the kind words and encouragement for this story - in reviews, on Twitter, on Livejournal, on blogs - I really appreciated each and every comment I read and I honestly can say I wouldn't have finished this without you._

_A few people have asked about Outtakes or a Sequel. I won't say no to either because I really don't think I'm ready to say goodbye to Duckling and Pretty Boy, so Author Alert or follow me on Twitter to stay abreast of any updates on that front. One of the most likely candidates is a very Masen-Cullen Christmas since so many people have brought it up in reviews. :)  
_

_Finally, and most importantly, have a very Merry Christmas._


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